I have learned to call loneliness by its name, like something that stayed
when nothing else did.
It grew with me,
quiet in the corners,
patient as dust,
filling the spaces
people never touched.
I was not left—
just never fully held.
A life of almosts,
of voices that passed through
without landing.
Now it walks beside me,
light as a shadow
that doesn’t need the sun.
Some days it feels like safety,
soft and half-awake in me.
Other days
it hollows me out—
a slow echo
stretching through bone.
And still,
I think I have made a home here. Set the table for one. Still learning the weight of my own presence.
But I wonder, sometimes,
if I would recognize myself
without it—
if silence would still know my name
if loneliness ever forgot it.
Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 8:28 AM UTC
I have learned to call loneliness by its name, like something that stayed
when nothing else did.
It grew with me,
quiet in the corners,
patient as dust,
filling the spaces
people never touched.
I was not left—
just never fully held.
A life of almosts,
of voices that passed through
without landing.
Now it walks beside me,
light as a shadow
that doesn’t need the sun.
Some days it feels like safety,
soft and half-awake in me.
Other days
it hollows me out—
a slow echo
stretching through bone.
And still,
I think I have made a home here. Set the table for one. Still learning the weight of my own presence.
But I wonder, sometimes,
if I would recognize myself
without it—
if silence would still know my name
if loneliness ever forgot it.
What loneliness feels like to me.
