Loneliness isn’t the loathing of sorrows or grief, it isn’t the echoes of your better memories

It’s not the inflicting harm of a drunken haze, or the black puff of a bent cigarette

Not the tears that befall the thinking past, nor the shattered glass of your broken nights

It’s the silence in the room, the buzzing emptiness that fills your mind, and seems to scream when nothing is sounding

It makes the soul more longing, and the tears more hollow