Ode to My Apartment (an ode which doesn't rhyme at first, but then does)

We only have two short weeks left.
I still don't know where to go!
But I won't miss you so much.
With your dishes piled high,
and fruit flies that don't die.
I won't miss your oppresive heat,
nor people upstairs, their heavy feet.
I won't miss roommates and their lovers.
Not the dead of winter and needing more covers.
Mornings of no hot water.
Or the fear of my imminent slaughter.
Noisy people in the middle of the night.
Construction workers at the crack of light.
I will miss my short walk to the train,
when I'm umbrella-less in the rain.
I'll miss my short walks to the bar,
I could stumble home on my feet, not in my car.
I might not miss the hipsters, all cooler than thou,
their sullen eyes below a furrowed brow.
Soon I'll be gone, and you a memory.
Maybe I'll come back, we'll chat over tea.
But now I bid you adieu,
in your own filth to stew.