I have been and smoke left, everyone’s gone home, nobody left to message.

I guess I’m dancing alone in the kitchen at the end of a party again but at least there’s lots of booze and fags and weed left lying around.

Guess the last words and gaze at the moon, as I think, alone, before sleep, are for me again.

I’m groovy, it’s all fine, it doesn’t mean anything to you but it’s not supposed to this time.

I’m supposed to be solo. It’s the ultimate prize/cost.

I’ve got you, if nothing else, amid all the shit, you are the one that reminds me to breath.

Don’t know what I’m saying, I’ve been staring into space for ages.

Ending is, it’s good being me because it’s important to other people that I am: Grown Up work as well as real life.

My cost is irrelevant this time round because, scar here scar there suicide had a go, it’s cheap for what people tell me I give by being me.

It’s a price and reason I can accept to pay and view with joy from a lofty position.