This is solitude.
This is its miserable little sound.
The sound of creaking walls and windows
And next door’s squeaking bed.
Its almost silent.
I can hear my mind tick over.
I can hear my cig smoke curling,
And curving through the air.
I hear the light,
Seeping in from stars outside.
And it’s been night,
For as long as I recall.
I hear the whisky in my gullet
Slipping into my insides,
Past my chest
Where your head
Used to rest.
This room used to be
Something else.
Something more.
Something sweet.
I know no one would believe it,
But it used to have a soul...
Until it went from something magic
Into something rank instead.
And it's cold.
All the heaters in the land
Couldn’t warm up my hands.
Its so cold.
We share the house.
Nothing else.
Separate food.
Separate rooms.
You seem to keep away from me
On pain of death or something worse.
It’s so lonely.
I watch as moonlit bits of dust
Dressed in silver cross the room.
Past the mirror.
Past my face.
Past the glass.
These are the marks.
And the signs,
The unremarkable sights.
This is the sound
Of solitude.
