Not at Home

We meet in some desolate bunker,

Sharing the blankets of our egoes —

Those bank-accounts of loneliness

On which we keep ourselves.

 

Please, don’t touch my insides,

It’s only making matters worse.

Loving someone is useless,

Because we only keep our loneliness.

 

If we think we understand somebody,

We only tease our vanity;

If we really try to reach somebody,

We do it only for ourselves.

 

Don’t dial my number,

I’m not at home.