Loneliness echoes
through crowded rooms, seeking out
me, the insecure.

Moving to a town
of closed cliques is an empty
chasm of edges.

Who am I? I lack
definition, mirroring back
what I think you want.

Lonely is married
year after year to one who
knows nothing of me.

I don’t know your name.
Can it be you hurt me less
being so formless?