A face backs away, backs out
while I turn a corner,
making for my destination.
The buildings on my side fall past
and then away.
Their distance only reminds of the loneliness
that I enforce.
A cry echoes
off those distant, brick shells,
but in the hollow, faded remnant that reaches my ears
I cannot distinguish joy from agony.
I do not stop.
The buildings return to my side.
But I know what they are now
and their presence offers
no consolation.
A string of curses is thrown idly,
and in passing,
though I committed no offense.
I think I've arrived.
A laugh escapes, but neither for me
nor from me.
Can one really lose a friend, or
is that person just misplaced?
What makes a good one,
anyway,
and what makes one best?
Then the less often asked,
what makes one better?
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