It is a special kind of loneliness.
The waiting kind
The bed by yourself with a night light kind
The trying so hard to fit yourself into all the boxes
And folders
And file cabinets kind
With coffee in the morning
And spending money you don't really have
And holding a pillow instead of someone you love...
It is a special kind of loneliness.
It reaches out for you
It strokes the back of your neck
It makes you scared of the empty TV screen
And the way it stares...
And makes you check the lock twice on the blue door that is yours for tonight.
It is a special kind
That haunts your mind
Songs from the past you allow back in
To spread their thick coats of memories all over your dreams of just being present in Today...
That album that brings back campfires and guitar playing and blue walls with clouds on them
And the way the whisper of John Popper's harmonica reminds you of both people now...
Not just him...
A special kind
That makes you chew the skin next to your thumbnail
And feel the clenching in your stomach
And makes you wish for a hot drink to wrap your fingers around to feel warmer...
It is...
It is....
Crisp. And loud. And hollow. And voiceless.
It surrounds you like a blanket that cannot keep the wind out...
It...
It...
It...
( . )
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