Worn body cemented to the curb with nothing attached but his homelessness and scraps. Only blurred visions remain that creep and strike his confusion. The place and the people once creating his home are now haunting shadows as he sits there alone. The flakiness of his hair and clear chips in his teeth tell an unhandled tale of a recent journey. Permit my wandering soul to join you for an empty cup of thin tea as you triumphantly pour me the thick walls you tried scaling. Confide all your troubles and tell me your truth, and I’ll be all the people unpresent for you. I breakingly drive by your invisible home, and watch you sit there and share spoken words on your own. The immense light shed from your pores eclipses to me all the perfect lit doors. Their tea might be warm and our soul might be cold, but they know not the depths of our stories untold. Tell me your chapters enclosed in your book and I promise to listen. Find strength in your lonely fingers to turn every page as I comfort your unscrubbed shoulders and have your unrubbed back. Your tea is as void as your bottomless glass, but your cup overflows with your struggles and past. I would sit there with you feeling homeless but home, for myself too would not want to rot there alone.