requiem for an election cycle

your friend is starting an affinity group while you

stare into the aether of what you could be doing

of maxed-out planners of half-smirked conversations

motivation, like your ex, only appears when you were almost alright

with her absence. autumn lingers in the air like

the scent of false promises on your breath

the world is starting something—which could be possibility

or maybe just fascism, again—while leaves and aesthetics

grow faded, murky—while you are burnt-out or

reignited or never full of sparks to begin with—you could

reinvent yourself, or maybe just phonebank, again, for

the tenth hour this week—but you won't

because hope is a ray of light

that might prove itself too bright, too glowing

to stay.