The skeletons
                                    Who had previously resided in my closet,
                                    Have now taken the form of angels.
                                    The evenings take shape as they float above;
                                    Somewhere between the cold white ceiling
                                    And my own self.
                                    Barely breathing,
                                    But already so dead,
                                    The walls of my essence are bare,
                                    And I've broken all of the mirrors in my heart.
                                    My neighbors have a cat and a telephone,
                                    And even though I "see" someone,
                                    There's no one to talk to
                                    But the kitchen sink.
                                    

-- Serena Moore

I wasn't aware That loneliness could linger For such an extended period of time. I had not an inkling That the desired to be wrapped in Pure simplicity Was quite so horrific. Directions confuse me, So I've decided to make my own way. Someone once described to me How boring the beaten path can be. Uncomfortable, I lied Before retreating To my familiar icy solitude. I am beginning to believe the only cure To my emotional flu Is requited affection And a stranger's embrace. I'm tired of rainy days feeling So dry on my tongue, like Sandpaper. Because I need moisture to dwell in The space between My thoughts. So sick am I of tears that taste of chalk. Because sadness should be permitted the act of lingering Ever-So-Beautifully. And I don't know how much longer I can stand to be alone. Because love Or lack thereof Is breaking so much more than my heart. Emotion is tardy absent in such an abstract universe. And yet it's death That's got me So Exhausted.

-- Serena Moore