Does anything exist at this hour,
when my footsteps crash,
and my breathing screams?
When every slight movement I make,
Feels like a leap?
When I'm all alone,
my house is quiet.
Outside the streetlights blur,
and twist themselves into shapes that
spotlight on the patch of gravel,
that's empty
No one is there,
to stand in that spotlight,
and listen to the applause,
of the grass, blowing
in the wind.
And I am inside,
looking out,
at an empty place,
that I wish were
mine.
Missoula, Montana
