a voluntary exile.
Tonight I check into what was once home
on long crowded nights of excess and affection, longing and euphoria,
glimpses of the past that could have been one’s future
if only one had tasted wisdom as time came and went.
Now this former home lies, dark and hungover,
silent, frostbitten, out of time
as self-pity creeps in and one embraces its charms
while plotting to drown in sheer hedonism and abandonment.
It was then, in the comfort of solitude, that we read each other’s call
a random whisper sent out to millions,
all stainless steel and futuristic pseudo-luxury, a false start
rescued by our anonymous angel
in the shape of a cab driver.
for D.
