Alone

This is what alone sounds like,
the ticking of a clock across the room,
the sound of a question unasked.
the silence of sheets next to you early in the morning.
the stillness of the night without end.

This is what alone smells like
No perfume on the pillows
No coffee filling the air when you wake.
A staleness in the air as you enter the room.
Dead flowers on the table. their smell a bare memory.

This is what alone feels like.
Dry. Harsh against your fingers.
Empty as a cloudy sky at night,
implacable and grey,
the anticipation before the storm.

About this poem

Alone is not always bad. But sometimes it is hard. Most of us know that.

Tom