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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.
Copyright ©
Kell Futoll
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