conversations with a textured wall
are so finely layered,
perfect for winter evenings.
though after a tiresome day
the shades of the others
often suffice.
laughter rings around
a room of furniture
mellow in a yellow light
and dancing in the eyes
that read its cause
in the breathtaking beauty
of words that couldn't
have found each other
except in an engulfing book
with a flaming red cover
settle on lips
that still need to whisper
to comprehend love.
tea for one is made
everyday,
brewed in the same utensil
poured into the same cup
from the red plastic strainer,
each washed and ready
for the next round
while the rest of the kitchen
looks on.
the cane chair in the balcony
relishes the winter sun
and comes back in at dusk.
its companion chair chooses
to be a clothes rack
without complaint.
the bed for one
neatly laid out
lies unruffled
through the night.
mornings usually find
a crumpled sofa
heady with pillows
and the stench of cigarettes.
solitude is beautiful.
but incomparable
is the intimacy
of loneliness.
