I cried that evening when we parted; she slipping silently into the comforting cloak of darkness while I drove away into the night bound for my empty shell of a home filled with no one and no thing except meaningless material possessions. I could still feel her presence beside me even after she left. She was sitting next to me - curled up - finally wearing the mask of tranquility after an emotional evening. What was she thinking behind those lying eyes?
Voices were ringing in my head—
Fragments of conversations; photographs of peoples' lives.
Small tidbits of information invaded my essence
then became lost in this massive melting pot of humanity.
It has gotten to the point where my own identity is foreign to me.
Do I have an identity, or am I just a receptacle—a shell
within which people throw bits of themselves
that they no longer care to keep?