Confuddlematation

Lonely is being home on Friday night
fighting back tears
while a distant whistles in the bathroom.

Lonely is having nnnnnno one to turn to.
Lonely is slamming into someone in desperation,
trying to get inside the warmth of someone else's life
to escape from my own.

Who can understand the writer in me?

Are you out there? Not me. I'm a not-here,
anywhere but anywhere,
atop the farthest light you can see, burning.

Lonely is being crushed by your own mortality.