The company of an exhaust hum,
a cicada song,
heat vaporising of asphalt,
or the shore of breaths,
inwards and outwards as you sleep on my arm.
Ice cubes fighting cup walls,
conversations of people,
like I’m not in the room,
the fake smile of a girl,
who just wants to keep her job,
I don’t hate her,
I like her more,
but I wouldn’t converse with her.
Does anyone else,
look for the quietest corner of a room,
and the minute you’re sitting in it,
you’re suddenly the most noticeable person there?
Perhaps then I shouldn’t hide,
but wear the same mask everyone else does,
problem is,
even then, I know I’m wearing it.
Self consciousness,
is utter sensitivity,
a womb of paralysis,
helplessness,
to perpetual analysis.
Your ears ring,
your mind buzzes,
your body vibrates,
and your being hums.
It’s not an exhaust,
it’s not a cicada,
the waves off the asphalt are an illusion,
breath, is syncopation of your soul perspiring,
and that’s just it,
it’s all soul,
always the soul.
Where are you then,
with your works towards it?
W.E.
Art by martin stranka – meet me half way
lonerloaner 
👌🏻
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