The Art of Isolation

Drunken stupor, directs the mind,
to bring to light all that it finds;
within its beat, a transient wave
which cannot yet this moment stave.
And so I hear you, as yet again
to tell to me so freely
how, and after all-- we're friends:
how you adore him so keenly.
Do you (I hope), feign? pretend?

Why do I in thought, cry alone?
Yet without tears, and at this throne:
with wine-stained lips which call to home.
Such little I knew of your hearts,
both so deceitful and so apart.
To exist this way, is it my art?