Always When I Hickup
I am all alone in this empty abode that once used to harbor my aggressions and wasted youthful exploits. I'm so desperately alone. I can't stand being in this atmosphere of stale, urban air engulfing me with invisible smoke clouds. I long for her now more than I ever have since I can remember. I hide these feelings well around my friends and those I love that I would say I love. But I am open, ripped wide for all to see when I can confide in the unresponsive devices of ash and keys. They manifest my being, moment to moment. They never judge or offer the two-cents that can easily fuel the unreachable dreams of the homeless, they just see inside me and listen to the faint thoughts that sneak past the noise of conversation, during movies and in person. This medium that I choose will never talk back, and that is all I want, a wall that will never answer, a moon that I bark at for nights on end, wishes spat into one hand with the shit in the other that always fills up first. I want solitude. I want to be left alone, but only in my own sense of community, in my own place that I can call home. I can't explore the feelings I feel when I'm in the place that drove me out, or I drove myself out of, I still can't decipher which it was that struck first, me or them. Still, in the end of my stay, it doesn't matter, all that remains is me in the same state coming to the same conclusions, and every road would have still brought me to this exact moment in time, at this same desk, hoping that this desk was somewhere else, on a different plain of existence, or a different altitude. Electrical circuits with cosmic insight, let the world, and myself, know that I am still alive, because the dried, scaly fingers still write, for some unknown force. And by coincedence, or an ungodly devine intervention, myself.