I walk home,
Haunted by a sense of isolation,
With my shoes swathed in packets of dry dust and soil.

I punt a few stones toward the gutter,
Tumbling into its rusty apertures
With an ensuing fall into limbo,
Never to be seen again.
Sometimes I liken this disappearance
To the one I feel as though I have already experienced
Myself.

I pass by desolate trees
With branches twisted ad infinitum

Like the lobes of my melting brain,
And I think about her.

I speculate about what I did wrong.
Every word that slipped out,
Every lip pursed:
Whatever I did
Eroded our love.
As each text message was sent,
A ship of deep affection sunk.

I see my house,
Sheathed in hoarfrost,
Emitting a dismal aura.
I am no stranger to it, though.

Night falls upon us,
And so do the doldrums of loneliness.

Clouds of ebony—so dense, so plumed—hang low above the neighborhood,
Radiating a downcast atmosphere.
Thunder resounds around me,
Deceiving me with double love,
And lightning strikes the earth.

Now,
I am here writing this poem,
Reflecting on my life
With a frown.