Loneliness doesn’t kill.
It makes me wish
I was never born.

It’s not the icicles
dripping from my nose
or the constant doubt
of whether I still breathe,

it’s the grinding sound
of silence,
a crystal-pure oblivion,
a timeless sphere.

I am a shadow,
My reliquary hands
have no one to hold.

I cling to my pillow.

Who will light a fire
under the freezing marrow
in my bones and get me out
of this black gorge?

I sleep and wake in pain,
imprisoned in a musty vacuum tube
in a radio nobody’s listening to.

In the alignment of stars,
in a narrow slant of light
may someone rescue me.

One hard knock hard
is all it takes to penetrate
my frostbitten skin,
and get me turned on again
to let someone in.