Stinking

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.

Regular.

Rounded.

Hairy.

Hungry.

Limping.

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.

Stinks.