Pick up the phone.
I’m drunk.
Drunk. Am. I.
Drunk and alone and tired of this country
Where people lie with not just their words
But their eyes.
Now I’ll admit, I’ve made love to lies
But they were lies which I recognized.
I’ve danced cheek to cheek with vices
Of a people I knew almost as well as
I knew myself.
Myself. Knew. I.
Along with streets dusty with sweat,
Littered with ideas of a better future.
Future. Not tomorrow.
Idealism was in its rightful place,
Driving home with Reality in the passenger seat.

Pick up the damn phone.
I am unsteady on my feet.
Thoughts slow, hopes hurt,
Feet smart and eyes
Eyes here don’t have the same searing warmth.
There is no warmth, instead
I have to face the snow and cold winds.
They wash over me along with the
Callousness of a country drunk
On its individualism.
Callousness. Individualism. Identity.

Reply to my sporadic messages
My typing is erratic.
My fingers skitter like deer
Caught in condescension.
Condescension is blinding.
Maybe these people won’t save me.
Me. Saved. Save. Verb. Wishful thinking.
Idealism.
It’s stronger than alcohol.
Don’t you dare take a sip.

There is a light shining from a distant window.
It is forced Creativity in all
Its unabashed brilliance.
It’s an epidemic in this godforsaken country.
There is the sound of cars
Passing on the highway.
They fly by with their extravagant passengers
Of commercialization.
I hum ‘The Less I Know the Better’
Under my breath and wait
For you to call me back.

Do you even read my emails?
Why won’t you reply to my emails?
I’m stuck in a strange land with stranger people.
Over here the most beautiful season
Is the one where the trees
Prepare for death
Sending down cascades of red,

Gold and orange rain.
I glide over these colourful rivers
Of dead leaves, dazed.
I want to try to understand
These people who open doors for you
But avoid eye contact when you’re
Asking for directions.
Obsessed with their distorted idea
Of perfection.
Maybe they’re lost too.

Answer my calls.
Reply to my texts.
Respond to my emails.
Reply, respond, answer, reply
Rejuvenate.
The palaces in my head
are fast disintegrating.
And my Reality is threatening
To turn them into skyscrapers.
Majestic. Imposing. Impersonal.
Empty.