Zebra Seeking Spoons

There is a loneliness

that doesn’t echo—

it settles.

Soft as dust

on the nightstand,

on the water glass you forgot to finish,

on the version of you

who used to leave the house without thinking.

It lives in the space

between invitations

and cancellations,

in the “maybe next time”

that keeps learning your name.

Your phone lights up—

laughter you are not inside of,

plans that move forward

without asking your body for permission.

And your body—

oh, your body—

becomes both

your home

and your horizon.

There are days

it feels like the walls close in,

like the world is happening

one room away

and you are pressed

gently, firmly,

on the outside of it.

Loneliness here is strange—

it wears familiar faces,

sounds like voices you love,

feels like missing

without being forgotten.

Because you are loved.

And still—

you are alone

in this particular way.

Alone in the calculations:

If I go, will I crash?

Alone in the quiet bargains:

Maybe just an hour… maybe I can pretend.

Alone in the aftermath,

when your body collects the cost

in silence.

But listen—

even here,

in this hushed and heavy place—

you are not invisible.

There are others

in their own dim-lit rooms,

holding the same kind of quiet,

counting spoons,

learning the language

of staying.

And somehow,

through the walls,

through the distance,

through the unseen threads

of shared understanding—

we find each other.

Not loudly.

Not all at once.

But in small, steady ways—

like a light

left on

in the window.