Immune to it

Like the apple slowly rotting Gregor’s back

What do I fulfill?

Cigarette from the bartender

Salt under my fingernails

I sat under a tree today 

Feet resting up against it

And cried from loneliness

Not because I have no one 

But because I don’t have you

There are people I could call, but they’re of unfamiliar rivers, so I put down the phone. I close my eyes and listen to people at the park. Four friends fishing. A crying toddler. One stranger offering a beer to another. I told someone today that I have so much love for this life and the people in it that I consider writing everyone a letter with what I really want to say. But I don’t think I should because it would become permission to do something permanent. He did not take me seriously. They never do! I’ve spent another day in someone else’s thick rimmed sipping saucer, not mine not mine. A plate breaks into many pieces. And through the window, I’m told to say less in words. You can’t make me!