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.