They cannot make it alone

They cannot make it alone,
on the street, in a bus, on the phone.
How they lean into voices,
their talk expanding
into a full blown noise
that deafens the silent stars.

A noise that bears messages
flinging junk of words and symbols
to keep, to keep, to keep in touch.

Words and symbols
that make way for loneliness.
Imprisoned they think
only of lock and key:
"Love ya lots babe, ur da best"
mangle emotions into text
or the void of the noise.

They leaf the textbooks of love,
when they open themselves
to the pain of loss,
but cannot do without voices,
as the soil cannot do without rain.

Cupping the dark of the night,
they cry: Who am I?
And the night's calling back:
Who, who, who are you?