Thirty five minutes,
since I went mad,
again,
isolated,
by government order,
and by circumstance.
Oh,
God,
I tried not to let loneliness fall in love with me,
but she sits at my front door,
locked out,
but still sneaking in.
She never brings flowers,
just reminders,
of all the promises I believed,
and all the times that I have grieved for them.
She brings their bodies,
still glistening and golden,
and I hold them to my face,
feeding their thirst,
with tears they knew to expect,
as she holds my hand.
“There are plenty more fish in the sea.”
She says,
knowing all too well,
that you took my rod,
when you left.
