Sep 30, 2025
l’avenue de neuilly on a winter day
there is a type of alone, quite different from the others.
i don’t know if you’ve felt it,
my friend, i pray you’ve not.
there is a type of cold that penetrates beneath
what you’d previously thought possible, and
then, somehow, deeper still.
there is an ache so innately human it’s become like flesh to me,
meat from my throat stuck between my molars.
and as for relief? what is relief but a lie?
and what is youth but useless comfort—the facade of being far from death.
the sun sets before i’ve risen from my twin bed, my mattressed coffin,
and i ask the snow if it knows where i could find some peace.
perhaps the weather’s been getting to me.
