You never had to say goodbye to things.
Things never said goodbye to you.
What a bunch of foolishness this loneliness brings
When what’s inanimate inanimately sings.
You never had to be awake. Things are away. They dream.
Well, that is what you say.
Saying is nice. Thinking is nice. But things mean less when you scream.
Be lonely, say the things.
I missed a favorite plate when it broke,
the same way I missed you.
How lonely to realize things don’t care.
Not piece one, not piece two.
I put them together in a poem.
I repair all things.
I made myself believe I wasn’t lonely
when someone told me: Look. Your poem sings.