No solace

The involuntary solitary can't find any solace, in the glass of white wine or the bowl full of olives.

The involuntary solitary can't find any solace, in the arty café nor the sizzling novel.

So he goes home...

Home to that couch, the couch that devours him.

He stares at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back. They have a kind of conversation.

At this point anything is possible... But nothing happens.




David, TCC