On Loneliness


Loneliness is sitting in the cell of your own body


Hearing the softened sounds from the neighborhood alternately float in and out

Like some kind of old radio

You can hear the faint laughter or warm conversation

But you don’t feel any of it because you are living in the prison of your own, lonely being

Sometimes, eyes glazed over and numb, you find you’ve wandered into the home of Depression

Then back again into the familiar ache of a heart that feels like some kind of broken stone, cracked in the deepest places

Only you know it can’t be made of what it feels like,

Because stone doesn’t feel

But you do

Sitting there in your fleshy skin and heavy bones

No plans

No one to call

Ah, you could, you know

There are people who care, which makes it all the worse

The shame that bears down slamming you for just not having it in you to

Get the fuck up

Pick up the phone

Do something

Perhaps we are in the House of Depression again, though the two share a door that never closes

What does it matter?

And then, isn’t there always One?

That one you ache for that you hardly let yourself think of

Because the impossibility of that fantasy is crippling

It is another New Year’s Eve

I can taste my loneliness

I feel it wrap it’s Nothing arms around me and squeeze

But the tears don’t spill over because they are trapped in my cracked, stone heart

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