Why is it so cold over here,
why is there a thunderous heartbeat,
a storm of ill luck that never seems to end,
a bead of sweat that always trickles down
and nothing coming out of it?

Why does it taste so salty and vile,
and emotions that once were a nice thing
now hurting in every respect,
friends seeming to know not more than that,
each time poking the same wound?

Why can't I find that mirror
in which I can look and see her,
even when she's nowhere near -
why can't she be an existing woman
and not one made out of such words?

Why is she hidden beyond reach,
even when all I wish for is a dinner
some place else with change of scenery
away from the emotional confinements
of a locked room with things everywhere?

Why is it no longer possible
for laughter to mean happiness,
to make people laugh not out of politeness;
because that's who I used to be -
why can't she take my hand and bring me home?