I read Pablo Neruda at night. In bed. Alone. And I feel an ache because I have no one to share him with. I have no one to catch breath with over lines that tug at the air: "I have scarcely left you, when you go in me, crystalline, or trembling, or uneasy, wounded by me. Or overwhelmed with love, as when your eyes close upon the gift of life...that without cease, I give you."

I feel this loneliness down to my toes that I have no one to share anything with. Just this screen. These words. The feelings gone into the ether of night before I can even tear myself through them.

I cry because some people have lived more in one second then I will ever do in one lifetime. I cry because it seems so unfair. I cry because beauty doesn't touch me.

I touch beauty.

It is a hollow experience. I am realizing that now.

"At times you sink, you fall into your hole of silence,into your abyss of proud anger, and you can scarcely return, still being remnants of what you found in the depth of your existence."

I wished I lived by a big body of water. I would wash myself clean. But I would leave these tears. I would let my salt mix with the earth's. Maybe then I'd meet a common ground.

And not feel so alone.