Home

He sat down. Said nothing.

It was apparent, though, that something'd gone terribly wrong. 

He sank deep into the magnanimous cushions

Absorbing his suffering.

A casual rendezvous.

He's hardly thirty, but not presently.

He exists in the realm before life;

The land after death.

Surrounded by the vast infinity of nothingness.

Tomorrow he'll return to his desolate cubicle.

Occupied by the essence of lost-potential.

For now, though, he's woven tightly into the couch

And is lost in a world that doesn't exist.

He's home.