So it’s not that I have anyone to talk to,
it’s just quiet at 4 am

And if your mind was like mine
(which is to say

a butter churn
exhausting
all the endurance I could muster
turning these complicated memories
to something sweet

or even worth bearing)
you’d also stop caring
and grate color into it
just to keep from despairing

you’re supposed to get over things.
so that’s exactly what I do.
it’s not something special that I did for you.

and when it stops mattering
who thinks that you matter
the chatter goes flatter
your senses get sharper
and sure enough,
you shore things up
and stand staring in the sun
in the stunned wake of the disaster

they couldn’t share it faster
but you don’t care
because you’re 
the only 
one 
who was there
and you’re still here to hear it after

So maybe I do have someone to talk to

who knew