she meant sometimes the trees seem to whisper
every name but yours, and the bluetits titter
as the sun rises and sets each day as if mocking
your inability to make anyone smile; or the lack
of warmth you feel even within your own bones.
She meant sometimes love is too short
and too sudden; too much December
on a wintry road. It slips on the ice
and between your ribs, laughs,
makes a cold, hard rink of your heart.
She meant music has no melody in the dark
you have drawn for yourself with old newspapers
and dying ink. Things take time and patience
is the colour pink and the trees never knew your name.
She meant lonely feels less like a word
and more like a sharp inhale, waiting,
tight-chested for the exhale.