I am lonely, not lonely

the choice up to now
has been mine

I will slip away
(at will)
into the recesses
of small shops
of empty rooms
or quiet spaces

to avoid her touch
or his gaze
or their judgement
our subconscious desires.

But all swallowed up

deep in the belly
of fog, of smoke
a vast, impenetrable

night sky

suddenly the
all-encompassing fear
grips me

washes over
so suddenly

I realize
I have not lived at all

that I am
suddenly
(forcibly)
the only one left.

Down a long, winding road
that trudges on endlessly
into the fading silhouette of trees
and broken sidelines

dim headlights

I am lonely, not lonely.

I fell asleep after "Good Morning, Vietnam":

I can feel it all, in your hair.
Under trees.
Flying above the stratosphere.
My arms extended.
The skin burning off my torso-
struggling to breathe,
with a smile on my face.

(Canned laughter)

You're in a living room.
You are me.

I dug into my chest and petted my heart.
Groaning, the blood swam around my hands
and ate it's way up my forearm,
to my elbow,
to my neck,
to my chin,
to my lips.
"I can ******* blood,"
an internal piece of dialogue.

She whispers in your ear,
"I know who you are."
I am you.

I cut my voice on the air, calling out for her.

Why'd you abandon me?
I love you so ******* much.

Why'd you abandon me?
I love you so ******* much.

(Canned laughter)

Why'd you abandon me?
I love you so *******-

You are in my room.
I am you.
We are everything,
and we are nothing.

That's my mirror.
It's shattered.

Hey, there I am on the ground.

There's a brunette, mediocre poet.
It's shattered.

And on my hand are specs of heated sand,
sleeping in my skin-
a glass garden.

How can one find schizophrenic kisses
in a reflection.

(Canned laughter)

I said, "How can one find-"

I caught a cold
from your words.

So chilled.