I wonder if the sound of alone
could ever be as soothing as your voice.

Sun's going down and I'm trying my hardest not to think
of the walk back and enjoy the nature.
It's a littered mess, though.
With discarded refrigerators, tree glass, the paper cups,
products consumed and departed.
And it's hard to feel one with the wood,
but it's easy as well,
we're just like the trash.
our millennial fashion clashes with the fallen leaves,
and our indie rock from our portable,
doesn't blend in with the pebbles.
I sit on a tree, turned over
while the sun gets lower.
I've got this eminent feeling,
that this trip back we'll be keeling.
The trees are still bare but budding,
still it's something.
I imagine this is where I should breathe,
the extra oxygen.
But all I smell is city air.

i've been texting people for a connection.
our bodies search for vibrations,
short and electric but its an elaborate show.
who are these folks behind the curtains?
and through these notes, i am certain.
i cant write anything of substance.
i keep seeing your name and i try to change it
into something insignificant.
but that which we call a rose,
right?
i keep trying to escape it
but my handwriting is no legible font.
no respectable medium to my professor.
i cant keep in between the margins
how would they know the amount?
did i plagiarize the way i wrote
"I miss you." ?
so, we type.
remove the writer. its about the content.
did i cite your absence right?
is this journalism, biography or *******?
it must not true, ****.
but my fingertips reach
short distances on the keys
of my devices
and we type.
hashtag notice us, hashtag test us back,
are we connected yet?

we are forever rendering what it means to be alone.
to see the solid sun in the distance going down, the colors,
the way the branches of the trees creep into the horizon,
like black veins around pearly blue eyes- the sky
its something we all describe,
in solitude.
it's been done by each of us every time we look up.
it is the reminder that we ought to be fond of ourselves.
that we are all the same, an those of us
who feel the pangs of loneliness need to fill the space
with the pleasure of quietude.

"*******'s my favorite...
when I picture my favorite babe
she gotta look good in that way."
"He wants anorexia."
"That space between the thighs!"
"Sometimes you gotta punch a ***** in the stomach."
"My **** doesn't bend back- it's just straight."
"Pulling their hair, I bet they like that."
"This guys got his ***** tangled!"*
"Oh god, I can't talk about this anymore."

I thought the train was going backwards,
but it was only us.