are we all so dull?

we feign individuality
but march on in
single-file,
our paths homogenous.

our moments of relaxation
are often hubs
of insecurity,
hives of trivial pleasures.

we’ll let everything zip by
and only keep
select moments,
hedging disappointment.

it’s not anything specific
to our generation
but perhaps
a condition of being modern.

i only like to recall
those few times
i felt alive and worthy
utterly satisfied,
a benecifary of fate’s fluke.

every day felt like the first
before she finally left,
hope marked by breath on glass,
slowly evaporating.