contented isolation

Human nature quakes for connection
like leaves quivering on a branch,
the skin quivering under a shaking
breath placed seductively in
the crevice under your jawline.

Atoms push and pause,
connecting and unwinding
along a garish carousel circling
into a tapestry of anonymous faces,
flushing to harmonize with the
stranger across from them.

The isolated cries of
the not so isolated sweethearts
and their drifting hearts floating to
another beat. Pump pump. Pump pump.
Silence. Isolationism at its finest
even among the flashing lights of
the ferris wheel in the center of the fair.

It's like candy when you find it,
the last bright red lick melting
against your teeth and sticking in your gums.
The sweet almost sickening taste
crawling in your taste buds,
inching down your esophagus,
icing your stomach lining until you feel ill.

Illness and disbelief at the peace
living in your veins and breeding
in your cells. Disconnection
from it all, tearing yourself from
the breast of connection makes everything
silent. You're ok. You're alive.
You're alone and content.
And, god, it is delicious.

via *