Carpet
Short blue, no pattern
Walls with scribbled art
Not good, but it has a story
Like the one we just did
Tears slide down
My heart breaks apart
I'm alone
There are people here
But I'm alone
There are flowers made of plates
Are there butterflies made of silverware
With ripped out magazine wings
And torn lined paper antennas
Depicting the lives of others
Cries echo around me
My hands reach out
I'm alone
There are people here
But I'm alone
A glass screen
It separates us with openings
For hands
For illusions of freedom
A cup of water
Maybe a new marker
My soul aches for comfort
Just a touch
I'm alone
There are people here
But I'm alone