In my apartment it is dark,
but even then it isn’t really;
the blink of the smoke alarm,
the light from the screen, illuminating
my desk as I type.
I see a bug crawl into a corner
and out of sight under this
synthetic brightness.

I am alone without him there,
but even then I am not really;
outside, cars pass by, encasing their inhabitants
in spheres of aluminum and cheap metal,
seven billion of us out there, all encased in little boxes.
The cars honk but I cannot hear them
through the walls.

In my apartment it is silent,
but even then it isn’t really;
I hear the whir of the air vent, coughing
out from underneath the table,
and the couple in the apartment above me,
yelling, fighting, always fighting.

They are in love,
but even then it isn’t really;
he beats her and she cooks breakfast,
each facing demons that they twist
and contort and call something it's not.
I see her as she comes down the steps
while I step out for a smoke.
I think she should leave him
but she doesn’t and I don't say.

In the flickering light of the stairwell
I see the results of love, I see the results of
her, too scared to be alone. It saddens me
to see her, although I do not know her.

She passes without a word, and
as I come back inside I close the door,
shutting out the everything behind me.
I don’t think I mind so much
my fake darkness, my fake silence.
I don’t think I mind so much
being alone.