Everyone seems to have found a hand to hold,
as if arrange by a higher power
that doesn't believe I'm worthy.
Restaurants sing in quiet duets,
chairs pulled close, knees and heart in rhythm,
laughter rising and falling in unison.
I sit at the edge of the music,
always the wrong note, off-key,
out of tune.
Conversations blend like harmonies,
I can always hear,
but never invited to join.
My phone stays still,
no name
breaking the silence.
Even the night keeps time,
moon and sky moving
in slow tempo.
I walk home to the sound
of my own steps.
About the Creator
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More stories from Tina D. Lopez and writers in Poets and other communities.
December 8, 1980
When I was six or seven, my stepdad came into my life, and I remember thinking he knew everything. He could befriend anybody, anywhere. In grocery stores, he chatted with strangers over cuts of meat; at gas stations, he bonded with people pumping fuel over how the smell of gasoline was disgusting and yet enjoyable. In restaurants, he took an interest in waiters’ lives—like Steve, whose father was dying of cancer. When Steve’s dad died, my new dad attended the funeral.
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Comments (2)
Well done! You’ve captured loneliness so well.
Aw. This stings. And sings a lonesome song.