Orthodox lonely

A habit,
grown routine,
a way of thinking and
of thought,
a way to be
and yet
to not;
A practice borrowed, overdue.

Two pillows,
just one head,
sips of coffee
not awake
get ahead
and yet
mistake
the dawn for midnight, nothing new.

No reason
to straighten,
neaten
plan
but sleep,
drift off with my heart on a keychain tossed by the door,
to wake with half a dream entangled in a solitary web.

A disposition
adopted some old aching midnight
with its smiles,
and its promises
to never
be
in need.

A custom
grown routine,
sleep and wake,
trip and dream

More a habit than
a choice to be

Alone.