I find myself here again,

in the familiar place

known as Loneliness.

I read a poem about a little girl

surviving in a violent world

and I am told that we are all here,

together,

in Loneliness.

I am told that

I am not alone in Loneliness,

but that everyone I’ve ever known,

everyone that’s ever lived,

has made a home in Loneliness.

I do not believe it.

I cannot believe it.

Everyone who’s ever lived, and yet here I am,

alone in my loneliness.

Am I so terribly alone, so violently, so contagiously alone, that everyone who’s ever lived, here in Loneliness, has fled this small corner of Loneliness so that my alone-ness does not spread?

Am I so terribly alone, so wretchedly, so heartbreakingly alone, that even the Lonely have turned away from me?

I watch the news

and I am told that we are not alone,

that I am not alone,

that no one is alone.

But here I am in Loneliness,

not a soul in sight,

everyone who has ever lived

has walked these streets of nothingness,

yet here I stand, and on this night,

I am alone in Loneliness.