When my melancholy sings,
my solitude listens.
My solitude comes to me, after a little vacation to say, “Hi, did you miss me?!”
And I stare at it with closed eyes, and say,
almost whisper, “Hi, I had almost forgotten you exist.”
If I were younger I would fall for someone
only to replace this emptiness solitude is made of.
But, I am not too young to fall for that trap.
For, now, I carry my own map.
I’m in love with metaphors, but I keep changing them.
’cause I keep changing, with my mind’s realms.
When I was young, solitude was a void.
Now, solitude is a water drop.
It doesn’t show itself till you freeze it.
It stays there, unnoticed.
But once it freezes, it pricks.
It lives there, I am its home.
But, it’s often quiet, I reckon.
When I was young, solitude was a dilapidated place.
Now, it’s a dark, little spot I sit on, when it’s the truth, that I chase.
When I was young, solitude was an enemy.
Now, it’s just a little piece of me.
And it comes to greet me quite often, quietly.
No family, no friends, no lover can restrict its entry.
And when it does, I seek refuge in ink bottles and poetry.