I walk around,
passing people with faces
belonging to no one I know.

I walk into shops,
only to small talk about
the weather.

I drain the pain out,
with a glass of wine,
or sometimes five.

Either way I always end up
telling people stories they
don't understand.

I talk about the dark corners,
about the edges in words,
the heaviness in rain and
how loud the silence can be.

I draw out the details in
glorious madness but
never get as far as to
telling them about me.

So I walk around,
small talking about the
flawless blue sky.