Left Behind

“At least it’s not beer or dope.” I tell myself,
as I pass another night on YouTube, looking
for something to soothe or distract me.
Blood soaked operas. Lovelorn ballads. Old movies
about The Devil or Evil Genuises or Unstoppable Death.
Video Essays about the color blue in Tarkovsky’s films.
“At least it’s not Pornhub.” I tell myself, as I, bleary eyed,
finally go too bed way too late, feeling way too empty.
 The phone never rings, except to tell me an orders come
or my dentist appointment is tomorrow, or it’s a come on.
Emails go out. The words I shape in poems. Mad sessions
from late night freak outs. Weird jokes that pop into my head.
Maybe something cool about my day. Or 500 words on “To The Wonder”.
Whatever goes out, almost never comes out. Not “K” or LOL or
never send this shit to me again! No reaction. Made of a Noble Gas.
Trying to reach out to those who love me, my fingers closing on empty air.
 So it’s back to beheaded queens and lost love and supervillains.
Something to soothe and distract me from the ache in my heart.
My mind broke senior your, and I was 23 before I was myself again.
And they all got married, had children, careers, all that stuff.
I’m not bitter or resentful or shaking my fist at the sky.
Shit happens, and sometimes it happens to you, that’s all.
But I wish I had someone who was there for me, who had the time.
I wish there was a place in this world for. A gift left to make me belong.

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