Sometimes, alone at home, I say into the air
“Bastard! Thieves!” or sometimes,
“I love you” to nobody, in order to hear
my voice, and to address the people
who ought to have been here, fighting
with me, whom I could resent for hemming
me in so that I could never have
this solitude. For not loving me enough,
or not appreciating my feelings.
“I love you” I say to the one
who did not believe me, who never came here,
that thief, who let my hair grow gray
without him, that bastard.