What happened to love?
The curious philosopher
moseys down a lonely path
proud,
and calloused,
admired by many,
loved by some,
but unable to requite
those
petty
feelings,
absorbed in
selfish indulgences,
driven to drink,
to dull the mind,
longing for
substantial companionship,
—probably an impossibility—
the only comfort found
on a lonely mattress
with freshly washed sheets
rid of those pesky traces of
lingering odors
that remind you
just how selfish you are.