'loneliness is a tax you have to pay to atone for a certain complexity of mind.'

                                     - Alain de Botton.

I don’t understand why it feels so far away,
like the blue comforter I cried for, but you never gave me.
Wasn’t it supposed to be soft,
something to hold me when the nights felt endless?

Instead, I lay exposed beneath the weight of cold air,
wondering if I had asked for too much,
if the silence meant I wasn’t meant to be held.
Was it me, or was it everything else,
that made you keep it just out of reach?

And even now, I can’t help but wonder —
what would it have felt like to pull it close,
to finally be warm, and believe I belonged?

High tide still rising
Life compromising
Fires igniting
Their ego enlightening
As they drown in the sea

Why does it always come back to me,
Not having those around when I need them most?
Is it just me, lost in silence,
Not communicating, feeling like a ghost?

For all that I do, all that I give,
I wish for understanding in return;
I’m tired of being the strong one,
The one who knows yet feels the burn.

For once, I need someone to see,
To understand without my having to spell;
I know I sound like a broken record,
Caught in this cycle, trapped in this shell.

I try my best to be there, to care,
Postponing my plans, leaving troubles behind;
Pretending I’m whole, while I’m barely aware,
Hoping for warmth, a connection to find.

Is it wrong to expect, to want a reply,
To hope for a check-in from those I adore?
Is this what friendship means, a soft, quiet sigh,
A dance of giving, but always wanting more?

Did I miss the memo, all these years long,
Foolishly dreaming of bonds that could thrive?;
Is this what it feels like, to search for a song,
Only to find it’s just me trying to survive?

Who do I ask when I’m weary and worn,
Tired of being the one with the words?
I loved those who listened, but now I’m forlorn,
Only to find they speak only for their own.

Yet still, I hoped for someone who knows,
Who loves words as deeply as I;
But they speak for themselves, as the silence grows,
And I’m left wishing for just a reply.

Is it too much to ask for a few simple words,
A flicker of kindness, a moment to share?
In this vast sea of voices, where silence is unheard,
I yearn for a friend who will truly care.

Now that we are on in years,
celebrations change and dwindle
to little remnants of tradition.
We are two stragglers
from life’s journey,
Left behind by the young,
No longer nurturing him,
yet tied to his well-being
even as we wait for his call.
I celebrate Yule not in our home,
but by imaging his joy beside a tree,
his exchange of gifts with her.
And I recall the first Christmas
with my husband, falling asleep together
under a mammoth tree filled with light.
We made ornaments for fun
and poverty didn’t matter.
I wrote a poem for him,
decorated with scenes of our life.
And now, we are too weary
to celebrate like that.
It is as if we pore through a box,
a ragged thing, dragged through time,
looking for souvenirs of joy
and memories of the life we had
when he was here.

Sometimes I love my reflection.  
Other times, he's just a bad friend—fixing his lips like he's about to interrupt me before I get my thought out good.  
When I stop speaking, so does he.  
What do you expect? He's me. ****.  
In truth, the bills are paid, and all current business is handled. But something is missing. It’s obvious. He just looks and shakes his head—my reflection.  
I'd be lying if I said I didn't care.  
I've gotten used to the silence that follows me. It's peaceful.  
When I make it home after a long day, if I touch something, I know where it is.  
If I cook something, I know there's more, even if I don't eat it all.  
He sits back and watches all of this.  
My reflection. Half the time, I pay him no mind. Sometimes, it's better that way.  

But sometimes, I wouldn't mind a bit of noise