Earache & Heartbreak

We sit on worn bean bags in the living room
of apartment 215A.
The usual suspects fulfil the coven.
The radio in the kitchen is an obnoxious 
buzzing of pop music and jingle-rich adverts.
i despise both.
The gang are chatting,
Soon becoming the normal moans
about nothing of consequence.
Moaning and bitching.
They speak at, not to me.
Outpouring tripe, trite ideas of heartbreak,
desires, phobias and nothing in particular.

They search my face, take my words,
Shape them for a truth they can cling from.
This I can give and do and do often.
I listen and I listen.
Being that rock and perennial 
shoulder-to-drown-on.
Cajoling words in the hundreds
I spend easily.
Trying to relate to what I deem a hiccup,
But for them their life depends.
And I listen and listen.
Then cool their worries,
Wet words splash.
A soothing rain soaks to the bone.
They enjoy getting wet;
Masochists, the lot of them.
I take on what they wish to exfoliate,
leave behind,
Tell them to forget it, promising it’s all good.
I spend too much of myself on them,
My brain aches with their raging pain.
This their gift to me, free.
But when it’s time for me to speak,
They don’t have ears for me.