Poem to a Lonely Something

I heard a saxophone

play its melancholy blues,

a tune that

spun with a deep,

harrowing

sadness — so that

the air sank and

my steps became heavy,

muddy, as if wading

through some dark,

beautiful amber.

But before that, in a silent

room, where there were only pictures

(of what I do not

remember), that must have

conjured up some whitewashed

feelings — I talked to

myself, thinking

of you. And that singular thought,

of feeling

but not being felt,

touched upon my numbed

skin, with acid tears

and calcified bones —

sensations that were

so cold, so

inspiringly frozen. That the

sun would simply

give up, drop dead and

sputter out like

an old light bulb

seemed oddly comforting.

And because of that,

I turned to the moon,

waning and rising,

overcast by many hazy thoughts

along with that wandering saxophone

melody, where I waited, listened,

and sang my song

to a lonely something.