Sunset Pointe

In May, I moved to a very cozy studio apartment in a very, uhm, peculiar apartment complex. Lots of character. Decided to write a poem about it. Like to hear it? Here it goes . . .

The setting sun kisses
the sky’s cloudy collar,
leaving a pastel red
lipstick smear that
refuses to tell any more
of its story.
Everyone here has just
that much in common.
The only words exchanged
between neighbors are
the harsh whispers of
hurriedly locked doors.
The closest we come
to airing our dirty laundry is
sharing the washing machine.
Obligatory nods in the hallway
last for a small eternity.
At night, the parking lot is
always full,
because everybody here
has already done
everything worth doing
in the dark.
Dusk is a watercolor reminder
of the dangerous hours
in between days.
Like the arguments
of the multitudes that have tried
to save our souls,
the world keeps going
around and around
that one bright spot in the universe
we should stay a safe distance from
to keep from getting burned.
We’re the only ones
that get it.
We’re the only ones
content with finally standing still.
Let everything else chug its gears
for a little while,
like the trains that whistle
from the south,
or the church bells that ring
in the east.
Mountains in the distance tease
the possibility of an endless north,
but in the west, the sun sets,
the only thing we share,
its tight-lipped kiss
proving our poignant
and perpetual point.