Defining you.

I want to tell her about you,
how you're not the kind of loneliness
that seeks intimacy, but the kind that
preys on the doubt in my footsteps.

You're the kind of loneliness that sneaks
up on me, not in the middle of the night,
but in the early afternoon, when the sun
burns my scalp and I meander around
the yard trying to find something, anything,
to do.

You set your teeth at the surface of my mind;
I'm not able to get comfortable no matter
how many objects and memories I surround
myself with, no matter how many coffees I brew,
no matter how much Van Morrison I play.

I feel all your sharp edges.

It's in the inconsequential moments where you find me,
buzzing with a baseless energy.

You try to convince me I'll never find or be
any type of fulfilling,

and for once, I'd like to challenge you,

yet I hold you close, for convenience,
souring my tongue like spoiled milk.

I can't let go this easily.