Solitude

You measure yourself like the coastline, a so-called paradox, since the shore runs not in a straight line but the wild scrawl of a seismograph. You can measure yourself, never running out of demical places like pi, and never yield a useful map. You view yourself as idiosyncratic but a useful map omits, averages the jagged winding contours of a self.

I carry some solitude like a cold tag of scent. light train gliding through aluminum buildings, each window holding a world where I become a tourist. inside this in-between I run my hand over aging wood, discovering a note of breath caught there. solitude is to candle every gesture of your absence, to burn it all before beginning again. then I go out, turn the corner, and there you wait for me in another light, this what grants me happiness: the loop where I lose myself and find you there.