Isolation Poem by HEG George

Sit in silence with me.

Your world isn't my world.
Sitting on the sofa is my world.
My tea, sat on its coaster,
is my world.

A dredge of voices
keeps me silent and
a fear of hearing torn words
stretches my understanding.

I am pregnant with inertia.
My birthing has no due date
and I experience no feelings of growth,
just a barren, melancholic contour surrounding me.

I am comfortable in smelling
only me. Tasting only my lips.
Touching only my body.
Belonging, only to me.

If my world is cold,
I can't feel it.
If it is bitter,
I can't taste it.

My world is isolated,
yet I can touch it.
And noiseless,
yet I can hear it.

But, the door on the house across the street,
is coloured in a warmth and hope
that I shall never experience
and a love that I shall never feel.

I wonder, what do my windows
give to the world?