the day

An empty house.
An empty bed.
Begin to seem as though the life to
be
lived. Watching alone; listening
the same. Forgotten is how
things look and seem when
shared.
There is a difference – yes?
Or was it a mirage?
Mirrors report what moves is
he. They also
report he moves alone. But
they report in silence,
of course, because they do not
speak, but only reflect
what is to be reflected:
a life, at odd times, in which:
Melancholy lists into despair,
or thereabouts, then rights itself,
lights itself, from black
to
a sodden gray. The morning
may bring sunshine, or not, but:
The stillness stays.
Solitary remains.
Alone is always there.