The self is a lot to hold
Every morning, he wakes up alone.
Having dreamt of a feeling, one he’s never really known
expecting a message, but there’s nothing on the phone
this garden was once exciting, now it’s all overgrown.
He sees them in the town, not an inch of a frown
fuelled by the beauty of a blessed promise
to always be there, when the world is not fair,
to hold each other’s hands regardless of fate’s plans.
His friends discuss their busy months ahead, while he lays there in his cesspit of dread
left with the wanderers, the ones who said
that they had boyfriends as they sat on his bed.
He sits with his thoughts, night into dawn
dreams of the arms and how he’d bathe in the charm
of just one that could hold, a heart once so cold.
Because no matter what he’s been told, to find refuge in self, to brave through the cold,
the self is a lot to hold.
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