It was what he wanted…thought he wanted…small living space…rented room filled with books and old jazz albums…a dusty coffee pot alongside notes for a novel that will never get written…old baseball tickets…reminder of Summers…when nights didn’t seem as lonely…
This Autumn twilight falling into Winter…no extra blanket on the bed…a chill from drafty windows is somewhat comforting…he doesn’t miss her…
There is beauty in being alone…a joy in poverty…wondering where the next dollar will come from…spending quarters on glazed doughnuts in the midnight hour…reading a book by Cormac McCarthy…there’s always a hero…
And he feels his skin…how rough it’s gotten over the years…dried out…wanting water…wanting water…
It is what he wanted…thought he wanted…the jury’s still out…
