To Be Alone

Party in Paris 

by Max Beckmann, 1947

To be alone isn’t an emptying of the room,

Faces vanishing into the night,

Walking other lanes,

Turning other corners.

To be alone isn’t voices no longer speaking your tongue

Abuzz, alien, apart.

To be alone isn’t just eyes turned away

Smiles beaming elsewhere.

To be alone perhaps

Is my steps slowing down,

Toward.

Across.

To be alone perhaps

is a sealing of the lips.

A turning blind with open eyes.

The smile left unused at the dresser.

To be alone perhaps

 is to leave the full room

And step into the wall.