after Henri Cole's "Solitude: The Tower"


Not long ago, I lived in a two-bedroom apartment
by myself, planted among the poplars of Memphis.
Nearby, there was a river that flooded at the city’s birth,
which I only ever saw when I was too drunk to notice anything.
Occasionally there were tornadoes, and I always hid
in my dead roommate’s closet, making sure to call a friend
who would appreciate being my last conversation.
When I sat cross-legged on my unframed mattress and failed to write,
I’d let the light from my laptop lick my face—thinking on loss, thinking
on love, thinking on solitude—and my eyes burned,
loneliness grazing my skin until I was on the brink of laughter,
then anguish. But writing this now, partially just to write something,
partially because I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything,
I feel happy. I feel like I could live for a very long time.

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