Loneliness

There is an old man who sits at my doorstep. I know him by the name of Loneliness. He sauntered onto my stoop one day and I’ve watched him from my window since. I sit, with a warm drink by my knee on the sill and let my keen eye wonder over his solitude. He sits quite comfortably over there between the brick of the step and the weeds of the flowerbed. I am most attentive as he picks at the scab by his elbow. I lean in closely as he rummages through the contents of his many, filth stained bags. I ache to know the contents of those bags. I watch this greedy man who goes by the name of Loneliness, and I never shew him away. When neighbors come to knock on my door, bubbling over with stories, news, and the happenings of life, Loneliness greets them. And I watch from beyond my window, shades lightly drawn, and peak between the blinds, as friend and foe interface. He guards his bags as if they were to take them. Although I’m sure my visitors would never try to touch those disgusting things. And after the new comer has scarcely a chance to grace the wood of my door with the skins of their knuckles, Loneliness stands in the way with his glassy eyed gaze, and oil slicked hair, turning a cold shoulder to their warmth. My eyes grow big because I ache for my friends to push past Loneliness, come in, and tell me what’s on their mind. But it is Loneliness who tells them to go away. I want for them to try just a little harder, but it’s Loneliness whom they’ve encountered. Having been spurned by his brute manner they hurry off to appointments less vexing than me and my smelly door man. I do not yell for their return. My hand does not leave the handle of my warm mug to bang fervently against the window pain. I do not rush towards the door to shew away the vagrant—this loitering lunatic—to call back my retreating friend. No. Instead my eyes flit from their departing steps. My senses are filled once again with the rustle of Loneliness rummaging through his bags. I watch as he picks at his scab, as he plays with a weed by his shin, as he turns lazily to grin with a broken smile at me with my legs drawn up and my warm cup of tea in my window seat.