It’s me 

and this tragic blank page, 

and our next-door neighbor wielding

some sort of deafening machinery to tidy up

the rose bushes that appear to have devoured even

their front door, and a half-full mug of unsweetened

Japanese green tea that has since given up its heat for the sake

of my disappointing writing, and the feeling of Damn, so much

of absolutely nothing has happened this year, and the page filling up

with lifeless, lackluster poetry as it does every night. It’s me and this vast

loneliness, me and touch-starvation, me and these incurable bouts of

missing you until I fall asleep, if I even do. It’s me and forgetting 

the involuntary reaction to human touch, that elbow-to-elbow

peace of a city crowd, of being a buoy in a sea of hot breath,

so much closeness and so little air to separate it. I hate that

I can’t write or see you or lose myself in the world. Or 

that I’m running low on vital hoping. For now, it’s

me and the hatred of this calendar year, and how

the neighbor has stopped loudly grinding away

at the stubborn weeds that needed tending

to because at least, when he was, that

gave me something to listen to,

something small to believe in

for at least a few minutes.

It’s me and I’m

probably just

as tired as 

you are

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