I took the subway back home, all by myself.
Mellow acoustics murmured in my ears
I glanced at my watch. “Dang, it’s twelve –
that lonely hour in which people hold back tears.”
I watched them as they kissed,
(however voyeuristic it might be)
“Dang, young love is wonderful (- don’t make me pissed,
go get a room, holy shit).”
An uninvited song came knocking
on my eardrums, which then spiraled into
a scornful myriad of painful memories, screaming
“DANG, SHUT THIS UP TOO”
I wonder if bitterness was a self-indictment.
Why am I seeking validation from others? –
I am not going to be a stranger’s monument.
Because if love is rare to withhold, dang, then I can do better.