Snippet

There are so many times
I sit and stare
out a window frosted over with grease:
Why you?
Why me?
Why here?
Floating on electrical currents
carried by giant monsters constructed
of steel and wood
and powered by the longing that I feel
to go away, to be gone, to get, to go.
Jolting right back into my body,
my tears have long since ceased:
I can't cry over it anymore.
When is it ever easy to realize
It's not you.
It's not me.
It's not us.
It's not here.
It's just not here.
Not for us.