Loneliness
I wonder if he feels it too
I wonder if he drinks alcohol and sleeps after, still feeling empty. If his stomach bloats and his eyes stings and his head spins only to throw away the leftover of last night, empty.
Filled, empty, filled, empty, empty
I wonder if he felt the same way as I do sixteen minutes to five a.m. eyes trained on the ceiling, the sound of the ac blaring, loud in the empty air.
If his eyes stings under his glasses, if his mouth feels dry, if his legs are too heavy to get a drink, if his mouth shut fantasizing about how it would feel to collapse onto himself, onto this bed, onto this earth,
Time? Sixteen minutes to five a.m.
I wonder if the mornings are cold and harsh, if he wakes up only to fall asleep again, eyes moving like a heavy pendulum.
Responsibility kept him alive, I wonder if that’s the only reason why most of us are alive.
I wonder if he thinks of suicide as a calming end.
I know I did. I do.
Why didn’t he do it? I wonder, and I remember the faces of my mother and father, of his heart condition, sorrows can kill him, and I wish to be in the grave alone.
Why? I wonder, why stay? If his smiles are fleeting, if the alcohol I detest the taste of litter his night. Who am I to judge?
Is his silence feels more comforting than chatter?
I found myself thinking. Isolated, in a room full of people, in a room bright with lights, a class filled with laughter. And I feel lonely.
Loneliness, Suicide, millions of people in this earth, yearning for the same thing, torn apart by the same thing.
I wonder if he feels it too.
He probably does.
This is a story for you, I recognize your hums.
“Feels like you’re there again. I let go of the pen in my hand
But someone holds it again.”
