A woman, on reading I felt lonely,
remarked I could not understand,
nor truly wear a lonely face.

And perhaps she was right,
I do have friends and family,
am not alone in truth, but still I think I know.

It is the pain of sitting with the one you love,
unable to touch their hand,
nor mention where you sit.

Unable to extend succour,
because they cannot know your heart,
and would not accept it if they could.

Dark nights, two bodies in one bed,
a foot apart, listening to dreams of better men,
no solace, a gap spread far as hope.

It is the punch of lost respect,
from measures based on pointless goals,
that cannot safely be assailed.

It is the reach of love curtailed by bitter fate,
families torn apart by pride and distance,
and pain of listless cold withdrawal.

Children neither caressed nor encouraged,
alone in a hopeless battle with a painful world,
gather it in their hearts by drams.

It sneaks into marriage beds and stately homes,
wedging itself where should be only joy,
pushing each away from all.

Death of a hundred missing kisses,
lack festering in heart's hollow,
chill stones to shatter lives.

I think that I have felt its call,
longest nights alone in shattered hopes,
dreaming of a way back home.

But perhaps the woman sees it right,
and my feelings fail to merit mention,
while others feel a greater slight.