Fear of loneliness or of being oneself
Hi I. Hi me, on this, a birthday. Hi,
internal eye of this year's storm. Hello
you: point without an exclamation. Wave
a single hand, then wave the other, pair
them off. A sacrifice concise as this:
pity your pity today, and let it lie.
An alibi for a scoffing enemy.
Myself, and my most toxic company:
myself. These withered candles leak their wax.
What could these last wet decades turn, and wane.
Picture me, today, as a metronome.
I'm home, away, one way, the next, and strike
each hour, and strike again, a single tone,
one arm, one fist. Alone, exalt, against.
Fear of drafts, air swallowing, or airborne noxious substances
Clipper of breath, ship-bound, I sail with it
and let it fill me in. There's nothing here,
without, that harms within. Drink in the draft.
Whistle through my chewed up pen cap—nearly
fume, almost contaminant: as near
a version of us touching lips we'll share
again. You think it's chilly, friend? Just wait
until the porch breeze rushes through the gate
I've built around the bed. You'll shiver then,
because my shivers ceased. No, I can't foul
your nervous lungs, and no, I'll never own
an arsenal so pathological
it spoils the air. If what you fear is true,
the poison in the atmosphere is you.