Photo by Thom Holmes on Unsplash

POETRY SUNDAY

i miss the champagne pangs of loneliness

sulking to the soundtrack of Nina Simone
i miss the isolation, crying in a corner
the time before life was in perpetual danger

i miss the innocence and naïveté
the boredom of long summer days
the privilege of pink problems
while your toil goes unacknowledged

i grow weary circling through the seven levels of Hell
only to find myself in Purgatory once more
i long for the monotony and grocery of daily grinds
the loss of limbs, loved ones, and life’s savings

i yearn for the familiarity of white houses
the routine of the ordinary, the mundane, the everyday