You call, nothing more.

Tell me nobody’s around.

I know how that feels.

Personal space,

accompanied only by the air.

That long ago, blew away

the last company held.

You tell me that it’s quiet.

Well I know the silence.

Unanswered lines of curiosity,

Of flippancy, designed for mirth.

The hearth here burns for one.

Yet even the Sun’s heat reaches the earth.

It could be called tranquillity.

The lack of one. The half of a pair.

It implies soothed ached though.

So none of it.

It’s not what we have here.

Digging nails with nails,

To pass the time.

Time, precious to be spent in kind

company.

So you call.

Tell me nobody’s around.

I know how that feels.

Personal space,

enveloped only by the air.