Confessional

Here lies the disconnect.
Does looking have a price?

There's nothing inside
this confessional.

Habits persist, deep and wide.
We talk about ends,
preoccupied in routine,
clutching our family jewels.

There is no sobbing.
That time has passed.

Locked up, barren
in dead nostalgia,
surrounded by old graves,
what survives is familiar:

something dirty,
misplaced, inappropriate,
a stubborn dream,
a gift stillborn.

There is no new history,
no new trail to follow
forty days, forty nights,
forty years in the desert
where memories lie.

One bumps into me:
What do you need?

I waste a lot of time.