She asked me If I was lonely,
My fingers hovered above the keyboard of my phone.
I stoped breathing just long enough to remind myself that my lungs were still trying to keep me alive.
I thought of all the times I’d gone months without texting her only to begin asking her how her days are going.
I sighed, knowing that she’s one of the only people that knows me well enough to cut straight to the point.
I thought to myself that I loved that about her but it’s hard to lie to yourself when you’re looking into a slightly distorted mirror.
I took a moment to think about the question, was I lonely? Or did I just found myself reflecting a lot more lately?
Was it sadness or just dark rooms that stirred my creativity?
Was it nostalgia or just remembering how things used to be?
And in the midst of thinking I decided I was taking far to long for my answer to be no. But a yes should not come this strained either.
In moments like these I remind myself that for a poet, I really hate admitting that I’m sad, that I’m lonely, that I long for something I can’t explain.
That somewhere between the paper and my mouth It gets lost in the pit of my stomach.
I want to say no, that I’m fine. That life is like a box of choclates that I can’t wait to taste.
But “yes, I am lonely” is all my fingers were seeming to find inbetween the letters.
That some days happiness was like a dream I kept forgetting the details of right when I woke up.
That I hadn’t actually slept peacefully since the last time I saw her.
That more often than not, everyday felt like I was watching the same show in a row for the 217th time.
And for me, that was as honest as I could be in that moment.
But honestly, it felt good to just type it.
Like I was actually being honest with myself again.
- And i guess, what i really want to know is when was the last time someone asked you if you were lonely?
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