“Like night lilies, we open in the dark, breathe in the shadowy world. Our soliloquies are heard by no one.”
― Cathy Ostlere, Lost
Night times are the hardest.
Every star’s tip pierces the skin like a needle,
And the moon stares back expressionless at those who cry out to Her.
Drunk from insomnia,
I wander aimlessly from room to room,
Bumping against shadowy furniture and stepping on cats weaving between my feet.
The heaviness in my heart is not soothed by pressing my face against the cool wall.
The weariness of my bones is not eased by turning the bathroom faucet on and off.
Although I have lived here for months,
I have no idea where I am.
I only know that wherever I am,
I am there alone.
My ears strain for some reassurance of life outside my apartment:
A passing train,
A runaway cat,
A night bird.
There are no prayers for protection against something that never comes,
And there are no spells to make the darkness of the heart lift any faster than the darkness of the night,
But still I mumble to myself like a penitent in humble prayer.
My lips move like prayer beads,
Speaking the names of those who are no more,
Calling out to children who will never be born,
Asking for help from Something that does not exist.
I never asked to be a night lily,
Split open with innermost thoughts laid bare by cold, white moonbeams.
I want to experience sunshine on my face and to be kissed by lazy honeybees,
To know the feeling of being seen.
Instead, I bloom in solitude,
Scenting the air for no one to enjoy,
Dripping nectar for no one to sip,
Speaking for no one’s benefit but my own.
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This work, “Soliloquies Heard For No One” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.