In the middle of the night I met him,
tapping his heels against the wall
and taking a drag on his cigarette.
I decided to ask what he was doing:
pondering some meaning behind it all,
or maybe mulling over a past regret?
“Talking to you,” he replied, smiling,
tapping the ash away and staring
somewhere into the distance.
I asked him why, and he waited.
Waited until I turned to leave, before saying:
“perhaps, because I am lonely.”