In an empty room,
Surrounded by
Ghosts of you.
I’m not dramatic,
But intense—
Everything focused
Heightened by tens.
I keep apart—
A hermit on a desert,
But everything
Goes through my heart
And emerges
With your lipstick
<<>>
Isolation
Makes me sensitive.
I write best at night
while animals sleep,
the house creaks...
My soul bleak.
I’m Ulysses
Every time I reach
Beyond my circle of light,
And yes, I'm no saint;
It's true—
But I still venture out
To find you.