Doghouse Epiphany

Dumping Grounds

The object of this restlessness that puzzles you
is solitude: a loneliness for loneliness,
a wistfulness for restlessness,
a straining back to what comes naturally –
the way things used to be
when I had only me.

I miss myself madly.
I long to be romantically involved
with myself again, like old times:
dependent only upon independence,
demanding only temptation.

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One Comment to “Doghouse Epiphany”

  1. I hate poetry, but your reading yours is like reading my exact thoughts and feelings in a way I could never manage to write. I guess the reason I’ve never really connected with poetry before wasn’t because I couldn’t get poetry, but because poetry couldn’t get me. Your poetry gets me.

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