A Mundane Chore vs. A Sandy Night

The trouble with being alone is
Being Alone:

There’s no one around to help
Scrub the Dishes

To help
Clean Up Messes
(Or even to Make Them)

And when you want
Quick Meals

There’s no one to join you in the eating

Everything becomes a D.I.Y. Project

Digging Holes
Planting Trees

Weariness, too becomes quite A Thing

‘Teamwork Makes The Dream Work,’
My chef always said

So, I tried, yet again.

I went out for a Drink On The Beach
And I found:

Kisses Are Lovely
At the side of the sea

But Sand Everywhere
Is Unpleasant, at least

So, I settled for Quiet Talks
And Silent Conversation In Cars

To be perfectly-honest,
I was sated, because:

Warm breaths, a soft touch
Kisses louder than words
Can erupt into much
And vibrations stirred
Through one’s limbs
That feed into one’s heart
Can’t be stirred with mere swims
Nor when two are apart

Lips enmeshed for hours,
Tongues tangled and twined,
Eager fingers’ powers
Just can’t be mimed

And it’s this that I hate about
Being Alone

It’s Mechanical,
A Dry, Empty Drone

But, it’s that again,

Because it’s just me, now.

Only me

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