You settle for less than fascination with anyone who looks like they possess a heartbeat. As those tungsten stars reflect in your eyes, you dance with strangers and you give them hope they might be the one. The strange new flesh you hold onto is interesting but it isn’t the one you want to be holding. You teach your heart to ignore this. And it does as you paint on your best smile onto cherry coloured lips. But it fails to disguise the true hurt you feel inside. And when they dim the lights at closing time, stripping shadows of any hiding place, you agitate and search for the blackness and temporary comfort of blankets. Your shelter is an empty bed where you lay down an impression of loneliness. Where you curl into a tiny little ball hoping you won’t inconvenience anyone by taking up too much space. But you wake up in the middle of the night and realise that you are indeed alone. And there’s noone there to steal the blankets from. There’s noone to snuggle up to. There’s noone to share the darkness with. Flip open your phone and let the light of that small display burn your face while your eyes adjust to the offensive light. Look for that particular number, the one that’s tattooed onto your brain and ghost your fingertips over the call button. Think awhile, “Should I call? Shouldn’t I call?”