Meal Of One

I am awake again at a time when I should not be.

My body and mind, each with their own particular aches, conspire to push me from the bed out into the cold house to this screen I sit in front of with these words my only warmth and consolation. And the thought that perhaps you will read them when you arise to greet the day.

I am a man in the midst of confusion, walking through life as if I am outside on a sidewalk slippery with wet snow. Through the window between a cautious split of the blinds, I see a dark figure in the street light’s glow making the lonely attempt. I stay inside.

It seems that I have always stayed inside.

Isolation is my supper, and my breakfast and lunch too. Fear is the drink. Neither quench my hunger or thirst. I sit at the table with chains holding me to the chair, hearing you knock at the door. I want to answer. The food is getting cold. I am told that I have a choice to reach out. But these chains are heavy, a familiar friend, and I would miss them.

Though I must say that I would prefer your arms around me instead
and your presence at my fearful, lonely table.

January 18, 2008


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