And that’s the thing about loneliness.
When it rises up beneath everything I know.
Responsibility, reasons, and rationalizations don’t matter.
They are like bread crumbs
a wrinkled man in a wrinkled black suit scatters.
There is no fighting these swords with words.
No translating from thought to feeling.
No speaking truth to that which isn’t listening.
There was this bridge once.
It got all the people the places they wanted to go.
It was canopied with tapestries.
But there was this thing they did not know.
As they made it beautiful,
and covered it with gold.
The boards holding the thing up
they grew rotten and they grew old.
I tell myself
all the good things.
As I stand in the kitchen light.
It doesn’t matter, it could never matter, it doesn’t change the night.