My door is not always open.
Sometimes I lock it up tight,
pull a chair into the shadows, and turn off all the lights.

I wrap my hands around the warmth of a cup of green tea.
I sit and I sip and I ponder the mystery that is me.

I do not answer the door.
I do not get up for the phone.
For beck and call love to conspire against any time alone.

The mug is cold and empty now.
The door unlocked again.
Having been a friend to myself I can now be a friend to friend.