Lonely

Lonely...

Is the sound of one beating heart

The smell of last night’s uncollected refuse

The sight of a single toothbrush in the holder

The touch of nothing but bedsheets against your Skin

The taste of dry toast upon your tongue.

Lonely...

Has no anthem or opus

To herald its presence

No bawdy dance

Or flashing lights

To announce entry.

Lonely...

Creeps along curbsides

And stalks within blind alleyways.

Lonely...

Has no sizzle on the griddle

No appetite or desire.

Lonely...

Offers no laughter

No camaraderie.

Lonely...

Has no melodic poetry

No soulful tunes.

Lonely...

Is the weed in the garden

And the single cloud veiling the moon.

Lonely

Simply

Is.