Solitude,
a gift,
a friend,
that which I thrive on.

He lulls me to sleep,
listens to my midnight thoughts,
caresses my body with his
wholesome embrace.

But I sometimes push him away,
ignore him,
replace him with trivial things,
empty conversations.

He, on the other hand,
whispers sad memories into my head,
reminds me of what I have lost,
how alone I get.

He forces me to vividly remember
memories I tried to forget.

Solitude creates an inner turbulence of
my ambivalence.
He relents and resents his replacements,
my so called "friends."

Yet, I am closer to solitude than anyone else.