i am alone,
set the table for one.
a breeze whooshes my scarlet hair.
it’s been a while since i heard my own voice,
just the thumps of my beating heart.

i scratch my own back,
lean on the tree whose branches murmur,
bounce ideas between myself and my other self.
pat my own back;
soft applause for the solitary.

pen and paper in hand,
wind carries words to my right,
leaves whisper roars,
echoes of thought and air,
so i write.

with a dog-eared map,
i am not alone.
never alone.
even here.