a vain ode to loneliness

"an old man who couldn’t read, once devoutly

cared for a precious scroll in his possession

and died hoping for someone who’d know to come by and

– with just the smallest gesture – acknowledge his passion"

the end of the day

is when i’m loneliest, by far

just before i step into the shower

facing the mirror after a smoke

the bidi done - too quickly

the smoke gone and with it

the veneer of laughing dignity

i’m left standing alone

shorn of all devices and pretense

and a dreariness comes over me

- is that what you called weltschmerz?
maybe not, let me
claim this as a personal curse

selfishly -
soaking in like the cold

up from the floor

through the soles of my feet

my feet that you once found exquisite

(misshapen though they look)

they’re pretty good for running

a metatarsal hurts, but that’s only temporary

through my calves, that you once said you adored

nowadays i’m only aware of them when i run a lot

or when i’m frozen over the sink, my whole body taut

bent forward, head against the mirror

eyes shut tight, on tiptoe

the calves like knots on a thick rope

to the bony front of the pelvic girdle

where the thigh meets the torso

at the little vein that’d sometimes show

where you’d always linger

with a toe or a finger

and sometimes your lips

before leisurely moving on, to my ribs

and the intercostals,

until my limp

hands begin to ache

my veined hands, calloused, baked

you said they fascinated you - unless of lied -

because with equal ease they could

both sketch and climb

and the lean sloping shoulders that throw

the trapezius up, (which you’d liken to a nice hold)

stoop even further, leaving more

than ever pronounced

my wretched collar bones

i’m loneliest of all

at the end of the day

when my reflection stares at a body

that feels like a collage haphazard shoddy

of various people’s whims and desires

held together somehow

once cherished, probably

forgotten by now