at first, it seemed that the things
that i thought no one would really miss
actually was and meant something
no matter how tiny or crumbling

will i learn from my mistakes? i'd say hardly.
am i not too much of an ardent folly?
now it's too late for me to idealize
so i sit beside the bookcase and realize

that i am one too many
among all and maybe any

prickles the pores on my skin, loneliness does
i'm too weak to return to how it once was
not that i want to, mind you,
what if it wasn't nearly as true?

maybe that is what i really fear
that things aren't as shallow as we hear
or is it the hum of lonely hands joining
that i am terrified of ever feeling?