Loneliness hits me in big Bed.
He boasts of luxury: a smirk of king, silky threads, full spreads, soft as a cat’s
claws paws. Simpering of excess for my small self, I sink in.
How he’d bully my bare blanket back home, I think.
Lights glitter frantically down below, clamoring for attention, screeching like Cindy’s stepsisters, pick me, pick me! I am the brightest, yes, the brightest of them all!
I close the curtains.
Blackness cuts corners, crevices, and Loneliness hits me.
Loneliness, an old, familiar friend. I say friend, for he is too close to be merely acquaintance, too generous to be called enemy.
He hugs me tightly, too tight, I choke, sinking into harsh extravagance. I cry. My cheeks flush rubies and as the floods free… I am free also.
Loneliness, a messenger boy. Sent by the Universe.
To remind me: pleasure comes not with property, but passion ablaze. Luxury is lonely without love. And the greatest joy is humble, unassuming, earnest and simple.
Like the way a child laughs and laughs and laughs at nothing particularly funny. The way it becomes contagious. And how it hurts, and we can’t breathe anymore.
Loneliness leaves, Sleep seeps in.