Loneliness and Love

You don’t go out looking for loneliness. It finds you: alone. It sings to you in dark colors and paints itself upon your shoulders—dares you to fall in love.


The first memory I have of you I remember as a dream. We are parallel shadows. We haven’t seen each other yet. Our eyes refuse to see until they do. Your body glances first: postures itself in the space my feet have yet to touch. None of this is true. I was just walking. You introduced yourself. I was caught between steps. You reminded me I was awake.

I first fell in love with your words: the language of your soul. We knew each other by listening. The act of speaking was translation: soul into dialect, dialect into self. I could hear my voice in your voice. You would tell me stories about the people you’d met, and how conversation was the messenger of life. You would always leave the last words unspoken. A story for another day.

Life is the interim of unrealized goodbyes. We hold to each other by a lingering string of suspense and continuity: that wish to know, to experience more. In other words, I never know how to tell you goodbye; the sadness I feel at leaving.

What I know now is that loving you is retreat. What I know now is that the more I find I love you, the more I see you fade. What I know now is that you do not love me. I know by the way you say goodbye. I know by the way your eyes trail away with the rhythm of my voice. I know by the way you talk to me about love and heartbreak: distant and past tense.

Something is lost in translation between us. The words stop short at transforming. Loving you is loving loneliness. The wish of words to come but only empty pages.


Where cast a star too far from you to I?
The heavens, though in eternal rest, could not
Outlast the heart that called beyond the sky,
For spirits fade though love have never I forgot.
Yet may this tragic love, through hallowed night,
Be imaginative, as it is kind,
And guide us as shepherds to northern light
For, of the heart, what greater things to find?
Wind, if known of life, to us, may now bring
The chaos, known of love, though where it starts
Is of the snake of lore—deceitful stings—
Which is the potion to yet fall apart.
Tis not the greatest pain life so may send:
Mind and soul, but of love and of the end.


From bitter eyes,
Never sent,
To be forgotten,
You never meant.

From hollow years,
At the core,
Cast aside,
In mirrors.

In the peripheries,
Who’ve lost the spark,
Now fallen nightmares,
Looking dark.

Life’s a hurry,
I must confess,
I feel I’m drowning,
I must address.

From the sages,
Turned to ages,
With final breaths,
Put to the test…

On and on,
I will contend,
When you start counting,
From the start,
You start
To wish there was an end.

Response to the prompt:

The Maiden of sweet death

In continuation to trying new poetry, I’ve tried my hand at a Triolet. It’s really fun and simplistic in form, yet still very meaningful. Let me know what you think.

To the maiden of sweet death: I knew
My life was not beyond me.
In the essence of her eyes, so true,
To the maiden of sweet death I knew,
In death, she promised life anew–
Though she had yet to call me.
To the maiden of sweet death, I knew,
My life was not beyond me.