ISOLATE

He keeps his glass close to his lips.

while i spend too many hours

in my cloak of dissociation,

with my head humming aphorisms of dead men,

and my fingers flipping the pages

in utter desperation of finding

the right words.

the right analogies

of what i hold within.

she says my apathy bothers her,

and i half- listen through my concern

that i'd stained the book

with coffee again.

it's  a quiet autum afternoon, and i isolate ever   so sweetly.