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In a room filled with those I love, I am suspended in loneliness.
If I were to reach out my hand to your familiar cheek, that touch
would be unfelt.

 

In speaking to one I know as well as you, my voice would go unheard.

My tears fall upon the flower you gave me but the petals are unmoved
and there is no dampness.

 

Which of us is alone? Is it I, in my old blue dress

or you, clothed in your youthfulness, hearing

and feeling in another place

in another time.

 

How many other rooms like this

lie superimposed in clouded imprint over

and under our own, filled with loved

ones unknowing, unseeing, alone.
Alone

 

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