Lone

It is quiet -
and I'm alone.
That's most Sundays,
let alone Corona Sundays -
and I wouldn't mind
if the moon fell, low enough, for me to touch her,
and the ground rose high enough
to be submerged
in stars
where you are silent
and you don't travel
across oceans,
smaller than realised
when spinning
a hand held globe,
where planets
call to me
with songs, serene,
lyrics of their home,
other lovers who live
and bleed out, awful,
in equal measure,
where the sun rises
and no one knows
how unsurvivable this entire life is.
So tonight
you can think of me,
I give you permission,
and I'll try
not to cry
as you do.