Solitude

I go back to solitude as day surrenders to night,
waiting for me, sitting on my single bed
in my stuffy room, starring at the empty ceiling.

Now its silence is cruel, forgivingly unmoved
by my cold indifference leaving
it behind, going to work wearing
a blank mask to let the city's coloured light
wash over my fears.

I couldn't have imagined how lonely it must be,
all day clinging to one thought, one hope of my return,
measuring the moments, the minutes,
till its world shrinks, its emptiness deceased,
seeking nothing.

Leaning close, I breathe in it, want to be it,
and coax it to sleep, as the world sleeps,
yet it refuses to, wanting to talk about
its day in my room, waiting, fearing abandonment,
seeking nothing.

P.S.: I have been trying to write something like this for some time now. Obviously, I'm no stranger with solitude.