Sonnet 36 - I Poem by Dennis Lange

In here, behind these eyes from which I peek,
There is no 'we', no 'us'; there's never been.
It is a place whose population's bleak -
A universe of one, a private inn.

The suite cannot be shared or visited;
It is impossible, and there's no room.
I fill it all, to ev'ry place I've spread;
I am a garden of a single bloom.

None else can sit beside and glimpse my cheek
As I look out, and down, upon my knee.
I watch my fingers give my arm a tweak,
My flesh that's me, and yet not really me.

The lone-ness of our oneness each must bear,
Because each is an I that none can share.