Madi Bowers Poet Prose

I am alone in this house

I am alone in the house.

This is as it should be.

My hands have become idle in their pursuit for comfort, endlessly reaching for a warmth they will not find. 

I am alone in this house. 

There is a collection of Bram Stoker's works on my nightstand. The book is from Europe. I have never been. 

This is as it should be. 

My eyes are dry and unresponsive to the words that flicker across my vision. These words compete for a second of my time, a moment to be observed as they were meant to be. They exist only to me and may disappear entirely if my gaze retreats. They cannot exist without a reader, and I cannot compel myself to entertain the notion of being with another’s voice.

I am alone in this house. 

This is as is should be.

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