Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Your loneliness spent the night,
having arrived for dinner
only to discover it had been less than known.
Do you feel better today
knowing I went so far into the heart of it
that I tapped out?
If there were a way,
I would carve that stone
until my fingers ran bloody.
But it would still be faceless
having gained its immeasurable ground at the work of a foreign hand
gathering as a boulder that retires heavily, remote and stoic
as if it had never moved.
I am weaker than I ever imagined
the brows of both
lifted in surprise.
Loneliness is a fog.
It is not the blanket that some poets romanticize.
It is just cold.
But it motivates us towards warmth
and inclines us to see.
We swipe at our eyes
and wave our arms like windshield wipers.
Where is home?
Why has our shadow gone missing?
We look comical,
but here in the loneliness
we no longer care of hecklers.
It just is what it is.