Solitude doesn’t ask what’s wrong,
She lets me be.
She doesn’t reach out,
Or hold me when I’m down.
When emotions get the better of me,
And I’m left in a puddle of my never ending tears,
I don’t feel solitude looking at me through pitiful eyes.
She doesn’t pat my back like they do with helpless kids.
There are no constant echos of generic words intended to encourage,
No tight hugs rendering me fragile.
So I don’t feel shame,
Not like I do in her absence.
But my solitude eats me up,
More often that I care to admit.