It is the hour of the crowded absence. It is the moment of the cold reaching in. No blown kisses or chance encounters, just the drab day to day and some aimless sense I just can’t slip. The ache slowed in through the skin touching an atmosphere ready to even things out, every song a sad song as the attrition intensifies. Crawling into bed in a house gone toward the stillness, this dull grind into steep decline. The heart saw it coming, the spirit a note on the door. The difference between an exit and a way out made clear.
It’s the position of the pillow, it’s the angle of the shoulder I am lying on, it’s the tangle of the blankets or the cat across my knee— there will be no rest. The moon weighs in with haughty fury, the stars don’t even bother to show. On my side with the window open, the sky poking its nose in without even a how do you do. It’s the songs on one side, sleep on the other, and neither of them trying too terribly hard to win me over. Say what you will, a fellah wants to be wanted.
The month wears out fast with nothing to show. The worse keeps exceeding itself, entropy working hard and well ahead of schedule. The season of the unwanted people has begun, where the friendless and estranged are reminded how unloved they are, parties and holidays where regular types gather together and every corner of the transmitted world covered in tinsel and fireworks. Those of us who have run out of places to go and people to see, loners and outcasts and dead enders feel especially keenly the mark of their alienation. This crush of night, this lonesome plod towards dust. Sick to the stomach and cold to the bone. That old feeling of all you will never know again. Begin as an organism, end as the space where the words trail off.
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