February

Wearing out my welcome, again.

The night is cold and vast, like the

Sahara or the Antarctica, it is

impossible to fill.

 

Outside the bar, belly full,

heart empty, I try to think

of a place to run to, any escape,

anyone who would receive me.

 

I can’t stand the cold, the night,

my apartment, my exhausted heart.

It is February, and it is its own night,

and it is just as endless and unfillable.

 

Self-medicate with Sad Bastard music

on the way home, or with ghost stories

on an audiobook, marking time until

all is quiet, and I have to live with my ache.

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