Being Left Behind

Being Left Behind

I spent the evening in a thick dark room,
staring into liquid space,
wishing I was somewhere else;
in Hell, or Egypt, sky or day.
Any place but here.
Any place but warm thick death,
the tepid heat of decadent breath.
Any touch with any skin.
Near any ear.
Or eye.
Or mind.

I spent the evening quietly dying.
Being left behind.