I want it not

because I need it

or because I really want it

but just to fulfill

some inchoate desire

of something that I can

be fixated on and about

simply to fight against

the emptiness that seeps in

and beckons and exposes

itself upon idle thought,

the loneliness that devours

me whenever I do not think

about anything in particular,

or the realisation that

I am alone not

because I want to be

but because I impose

my solitude upon others

thus I lust for it

because it covers me

up and prevents me

from seeing the impotence

of my being.