Loneliness is the last trace of sunshine on your wrist
as you're driving home from his house,
the amber fields rushing by,
blending into multicolored waves.
It's the drops of blood dribbling
deep inside your chest where your heart beats.
A slow throb. An aching singe.
The music on the radio drones on like fireflies,
small and high with dots of light sprinkled within,
the sky growing purple and then draining out
as the last bits of sunset go down the drain.
You remember the rasp of his laugh, or his touch,
or the way he smiled just before he slammed the passenger door,
or how he slouched in the seat on the way home,
so close yet eternities away.
You are his friend, but you want to be more.
You want to be the flannel shirt against his skin,
or the cuffs of his jacket resting wrinkled on the armrest,
or the fabric of his hoodie snug against his throat.
But instead you are the puffs of smoke from his breath,
close to him for one precious instant but vanishing into frigid air.
For an instant, you were with him.
And then, you were not.
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139,407 Literary Works • 672,552 Reviews
Hi Rosie! It's Abigail and I'll be reviewing this poem.
First of all, I love the way you used synesthesia. Since I can't put that into my own words, I'll use Google's definition: "The poetic description of a sense impression in terms of another sense, as in 'a loud perfume.'"
You used synesthesia excellently in the third paragraph; the heard music is described in terms of visual light -- wonderful!
Your descriptions are all excellent, and the only thing I'm really thrown off by is the way you address the poem to me. I know it's a literary choice, and by no means should you feel obligated to change it, but aren't you talking about yourself? It was sort of weird to read a poem about me even though I've never felt any of those things.
What an apt description of loneliness. I hope to see you around!