So this is lonely,
Crowded places and familiar faces,
Apart in selfness,
Unseen or unnoticed,
Simply irrelevant in the sight of the many.
This is isolation,
Knowing and seeing,
But never touching or tasting,
The joy of companionship,
This is solitude,
The loud roar of jubilation all around you,
Standing still unable or unwilling to join the fray,
Shy observer of some other place,
Into which you are not welcome,
Even as you occupy the same space,
This is lonely,
This thing masked behind your plastic smile,
As someone anyone offers a boon by way of awkward greeting,
And dance briefly but politely around anything worth saying,
Yes, this is lonely,
But this is not alone.
©Michelle Toussaint, all rights reserved.