Solitude
I had had my fill,
but I kept devoting more
days, then weeks to it,
buying books, making
no plans, as if empty slots
would well up with rain,
pushing anyone
who might edge into my space
away as if by
natural forces.
I never pledged anything
permanent to it,
but habit carves rock.
Why did I think a movie,
a concert, a game
would drown something out?
I have come to my senses.
I believe in books,
but they have their place.
The flowers in them lack scent.
Books cannot feed you;
they are at their worst
when imitating romance,
not because they don’t
get it but because
they do: romance is mental.
That’s why, looking back
on real-life failures,
you ask, What was I thinking?
You already know
what you were doing.
Even at the time, you knew
what you were doing.
From The Common, October 2024
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