There is a deep loneliness that has descended upon some of us during our months of isolation.

Some friends have told me that there is a special heartache that has enveloped those who are living alone. I suspect the worst of that loneliness comes at night, in a cold bed, alone.

This poem is dedicated to all those who are enduring this distinct brand of loneliness. May we soon be blessed with the ability to touch one another again.

Only as the moon is cold,
and the cat is here
breathing silence on my bed,
where orange and yellow and red
all look the same to a sleeping sun.

The moon has promised colors,
warm colors.
But the moon is cold,
and my bed is cold.

The cat is warm,
but she moves away
when I move to hold her.

And the moon looks in
to see that there is no one in my bed
but me.

Only as this silence
is an intrusion,
mocking me
because I am not sleeping.

This cool blackness
is matching hands
with my body.
And my body
is matching nothing
but the chill of the moon.

And the moon shines cold tonight.
Silvery and distant.
And the distance is like that
always there
between two people
who look into each other every day,
but can’t touch.

It leaves me staring at a moon,
shining silvery and cold,
chilling even the silence.

~