The summer heat seems to persist, despite
the allegations of a calendar portraying Fall.
I sit upon a balcony, amongst groups
chattering about their life experiences.
Each individual wearing loose clothing
with neutral colors to avoid perspiration.
I wish I had gotten the memo.

It seems only fitting that I wear
a maroon button-up flannel.
“You’re torturing yourself in this weather!”
Perhaps I just fancy masochism;
my penance for a divine absolution.
Its constraints prove difficulty
as I try to catch a breath of life.

There’s a certain wistfulness to being
an outcast-of-all-trades.
I do desire some sort of social interaction,
but the lack of small talk is definitely freeing.
Who would require this form of communication?
A complete lack of substance of individuality
whereas I’m waiting patiently and hungrily.

They say a healthy temperature is 98.6,
but if I’m constantly a degree or two less,
am I less inclined to be living?
Perhaps it’s the lack of compassion
that causes my blood to turn thicker.
If I may inquire a further inspection,
I’d say I’m in a dire need of a hug.

Meaningless words drown out the silence
as if we should listen to respond.
We form a sentence before the rant is done
and with utilization of reactionary banter,
our hurt emotions are forever lost.
Deep down, we just want a listener to understand.
Please, talk some sense to me.

A couple across from me is sharing
what looks like a strawberry wave smoothie.
The simplicity and beauty tugs
the strings of an aching, irregular heart.
They’re laughing. They’re smiling. They left.
I could sense love in the air,
all the while I sit here, telling myself

“Maybe one day.”