Friday, November 9, 2012


Late last night I sat
smoking and stewing on
my sofa, suffering through
the solitude and singleness
of three times ten plus five.
Almost six.

Another poem about the longing
and the wishful thinking I
torment myself with every
single, single day.

I woke this morning still
smoldering with thoughts
of my situation and a helpless
sense of unstirred attraction.

It’s maddening to be lonely.
Even while surrounded with
caring eyes. But they've got their
own business and it seems it’s
none of mine.

So a late night sofa sitting is
set and a dreamy, unsolid
smokiness falls upon the room
and all the cries and whys echo
off uncaring, unseeing walls
to fall deafly to the floor.

I’m not so bad.
I’m not super awesome.
I’m me.

Its intimacy and secrets,
a cabal of soul and mind
chuckling in the corner
where the lovers sit that
I long for.

The alone here. The lonely now.


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