how do we become so alone

so distant

that we only appreciate love
as a tragedy in a play
a death in a poem
the ghost of a lover

who stole

then betrayed our heart

and even through the pain
of their crimes against us
we still miss their lips
and their breath
and their lies of love

what is so warm
about the comfort of solitude
that we forget
how to feel lonely

in our bones
in our blood
in our hearts

that we no longer lust
for companions
for friends
for any kind of desperation

were has the misery gone
were did we misplace
the fire and the rage
the want of need
the need to be needed

how far can we go
how much distance will it take
until we remember
that love is more

than tragedy and death
more than a tool
of the playwright
and metaphor for the poet

that it is not only the memory
of ghosts who no longer
need our needing

that we need not be so alone

so distance from love
that we forgot to feel lonely

in our bones
in our blood
in our hearts

and if nothing else
we can always be
alone together
so we never forget
to appreciate
the beauty of love