147 Words On Loneliness

Edward Hopper, Nighthawks

The world departs from me as a stolen letter, ripped open and discarded. Even here, I find myself.

Burnt Orange against sleeping blue, I draw lines along the faint distinction between shadow and the distant light of the street lamp filtering in through the curtains.

The furthest point within myself I never fail to touch. Hair that was once fine and straight now grows coarse and river-ish. Like in a Hopper painting, I note the light. I feel darkness drinking up my body in the evening cool.

The cat curls around his paws, my mouth tastes bitter after a glass of water.

I wish for things to change.