Sometimes

Sometimes, being alone in a crowded room is hard to imagine.

Sometimes, all of the familiar bodies are just a blur and the noise is treading water but it’s slowly drowning.

Sometimes, the cup in your palms is just to busy your hands because if they could they would point your feet out the door.

Sometimes, you wonder how their lives can speed on while you’re still trying to catch a bus back to where yours braked long ago.

Sometimes, the mass of people is a jumbled handwritten story and you’re a stray mark written with worry.

Sometimes, being alone in a crowded room is hard to imagine.

Sometimes, who’s not there is more important that who is.