Untitled.

Lately, I’ve been despising my loneliness.
There once was a time when I undoubtedly cherished it
Yet now it is only silence.
Drip.
drip.
drop.
At least he’s there.
Sometimes.
Sun-tanned and ready to fuck.
It’s not how I’d imagined it would happen. Although
in the back of my mind, I knew in a way it might. Probably.
Me being a “sure thing” and all.

Gradually, I understood that these thoughts were just
naked glimpses of my arms.
I stop and turn and stand into the wind
Only to find there is no wind.
No rain.
Just heat.
And I have no business left here.

Still
My arms
are long flaps, shreds of flesh-
a composition of my body-an extenditure of
what I might be truly capable of.
Perhaps I could touch him with them.
He doesn't make it at all possible
Still
I can feel those arms
and a heart beating inside mine
as I press into him near the dingy corner.
No. I think to myself.
I try and force my arms down
through air which is suddenly cold and heavy
As I were wrestling in a body of water
on that clammy summer night.

Loneliness: There is no organ that can take it all.

I imagine that these shreds of flesh,
In a quick flash, will raise up and propel away on the wind, leaving
An exposed column of one single bone
and blood
and muscle

It pains me to record this.

I am not a melodramatic person.
Still, soul is carved in a wild workshop

I am obliged that
I can talk forcefully and evenly
About the other furniture in the clinic-
About the unalterable spirit
stronger than a man, simpler than a child
The cruel illness
pain no words can render
The autonomous end
she sank rapidly

Nevertheless, the question (someone would say)
I am left with is the legitimacy of her loneliness.

Supposedly, one way to put off loneliness is to interpose God.

* * *

There is no question,
it would be sweet to have a friend to
tell things to at night,
without the terrible sex price to pay.