My Loneliness Before I Met You

Not even grief visits this place. Only the soft slosh of my own voice inside my skull. The world speaks in neon, in bills, in news tickers, but never says my name. I left pieces of myself in lovers’ beds, in rented rooms, in smoke. But they never bled for me like I bled for no one. Now I sit by the window, half-blind, full-heart, writing poems that disappear faster than the dust I swallow.