each of us, sat alone in shivering boxes, made less fatal
with predictable wall art; dented trinkets of teenage hope.
sun-faded photos of happiness, paper lists of the things we’d like to manifest,
gathering dust under leaflets, for events
we’ll never make it to.
bent double; retching yesterday’s hope
across social media; our lack lustre bait
catching little more, than vapid, bloated
dressed down, heads bowed, we follow lines
on the pavement; hope quivering
as we avoid the chewing-gum cracks,
with exquisite moments of optimism.
we reach out through imagination,
our boldest, silent dreams, building bridges
except no one can see our unspoken innards.
we remain, fortified. time-served defences,
having become outfits we no longer have to remember to put on.
waking in the twilight, with aching livers,
as the sun delivers
longer than the one before.
only the lonely
what it is to be alone.
and we are all too broken
to talk to each other.
too scratched to reach our play-off.