In the midst of a burning

desire for isolation.

Long plains that see nothing but

hilltops,

an eerie silence;

we are still incomplete.

Our nature was not nurtured in empty rooms.

 

Cared for in loneliness.

 

There, we do not burgeon.

 

From impatience,

a trip which should have lasted longer,

a coffee stained mug we can’t get rid of,

births this incessant Need.

 

Yet still,

in busy hands we return—

with an uncertain heart,

and more questions than we

began with.

 

Listen

now

to my string.

 

We are not meant to be alone.

Not in this time,

or the next.

​​

​

— A.M. Sención

02.2025