He said,

“Something romantic

about eating alone…”

Then something existential

about living alone,

said something military

was when he felt the most alone.

 

Him, directing a tank,

pair of eyes peeping above a collective.

Me, steering my bike through the alleys,

not even knowing how people drive tanks, really.

Him, living alone these days.

Me, living alone.

 

Him, with speculations on how

alone means you can be yourself,

your most authentic self, whatever that means.

Me, with my questions:
Am I doing something wrong then?

Then, wait, are you sure?

Me, with my skepticism.

Me, with my tangents.

Me, always “with” something

and how that’s a metaphor for perpetual dependence.

 

Me, and how I float without a name, how I almost wish

I could take his tank for a test drive

because, I learned recently, someone has to yell which direction to turn

and someone has to listen.

Me, and how I wish someone would listen.

 

Us and how—we’ll never admit this, but—

even miniscule listening makes us feel like we exist.

Me and how—I won’t ever admit this, but—

maybe that’s why I don’t feel like myself when I’m alone.

Me, and how I’d worry if alone meant true me

the way I’d worry if ghost meant nobody cares.

 

Me, and how, maybe, before tonight,

before I knew how tanks were driven,

I wasn’t sure what listening meant,

or maybe I still don’t, or

maybe only ghosts can hear other ghosts.

Me and how I haven’t cared about romance

for the last half-year

and still don’t.

 

Romance and authenticity and how, maybe,

just being alone with other ghosts

is the real ticket,

the real romance

people look for.