The laughter of slurring neighbors
leaks through the concrete walls
and hangs in the stale heat of
this 8 x 10 room.
It is not yet midnight, but the
fluorescent bulbs have burnt.
My pupils dilate from the effort
of screwing GE and
justifying laziness.
Three-inch high stilettos
click evenly in the stairwell.
A neighbor audibly
groans at the sound.
I hear your voice instead of his,
and shiver in longing.
Hips roll and strive
to perpetuate the species
on the metal bed frame above;
it has been a long week
without reason or release.
Why aren’t your hands on the bare
curve of my waist?
You may never say hello, Fyodor,
but you are already forgiven.
My name was never Liza.
Darkness eventually bends to dawn.
