Just Like it Always Does
I wonder if people are lonely when they type words into a box on a screen for others to see;
a frantic hand signal waving on a helicopter, pleading for help when stranded.
I wonder if underneath letters that spell out various words, such as “snow” or “President Trump,” there is a secret message, waiting to be decoded.
Do we all just want to be rescued?
To be lonely, at times, is to be human.
Separation is deeply felt in the unabashed quiet; all I want is for that person to be right next to me.
But tears push out hormones from the body, they say it is emotional catharsis; they say tiny water droplets release cortisol, into the introspective silence, and somewhere along the way, perspective chimes in.
Birds are chirping in the sunshine and it’s January.
Suddenly I feel my adolescence, like a triggered muscle memory, and I’m sixteen, putting on my black flip flops with rhinestones on an early April evening when the daylight still lingers and the birds are chirping outside.
Loneliness disintegrates in light, just like it always does.