The slow tremor of alone

Some can sit alone. An aesthetic life style, I imagined would be nearest perfection. A delicious delusion of my twenties, an emulated Zen simplicity. Yet in the tainted tallow of my bones, my current haiku has lost sparkle, and a shallow pool of despair encircles this listless gypsy.

I had a love that lingered long, pumping air into my stifling sadness... allowing a pattern of renewal, one more weekend free from self. Some drink, while others smoke, I seek life in the comfort of companionship. Love, and her kissing cousin lust, have been my nicotine and alcohol. I am happiest lost inside another.

I understand the Zen logic of single-mindedness. But, in the darkened cave of self... I yearn for other. Someone to distract me from the slow tremor of consequence.