The absence of people,
often a blessing,
seems more like a hardship
on this clear cold night.

There’s no one here
to distract me from my condition,
to alleviate the tension,
to come between me and the silence,
me and the emptiness,
me and the night.

The night and me:
that’s all I see.
The night and
me, trying to put this night into words,
trying to put myself into words:
to mold beauty out of pain,
inspiration out of frustration,
the distinct out of the same.

There’s no one here to come between me and the night,
but yet there is something between us.
There’s no one here to come between me and the night.
No one, that is,
but me.

There’s no one here
in the night
but me.