A comfortable glass of solitude

What I long for now is a rainy night,
looking out at it through a pane of glass
in some pokey, wooden bar;
a warm, apple cider with cinnamon,
the occasional jingle and crack of the door,
voices huddled,
jolts of laughters from down the bar
or in the booths,
alone, but not lonely,
so accompanied by the orange light,
unburdened of time or purpose,
I am here to observe, and to be observed,
toying with a line or two,
hanging out with my muse,
cheers-ing to the heavy drops
collecting on the cross-hatch,
working through the stages, methodically –
hitting grief only briefly,
hitting self-pity only once,
and bouncing back but armed with this:
I love who I am, and I’m doing so well,
and it’s ok that my clothes are damp,
that my drink’s a little cooler,
that my moment’s not shared,
because nothing stays,
not gold nor grey.