The Quiet Outside
The Quiet Outside
The empty space of connection, the gathering,
Pulses with a vibrant energy I only observe.
It hums with plans already made,
A detailed itinerary, a map of places where I do not go.
My position is fixed: outside. I don't move;
I only watch the colors of the evening fade
From my window, a slow drain of warmth and light.
My world is contained, defined by sitting in the light of what I know.
The knowledge I possess is isolating, sharp:
That laughter sounds much louder through a wall—
Magnified by the barrier that separates their joy,
A painful noise. And conversely,
Silence is a heavy thing to wear,
A cloak woven from unsaid words.
It presses down, making breathing difficult.
So, I maintain a silent vigil. I wait for pings, for any word at all,
A simple notification, an anchor thrown,
To prove that, in their minds, I’m standing there.
The name of "friend," I embraced fully;
We call them friends; I gave the name with pride,
A sacred title for those to whom I opened life.
I shared my secrets, listened to their own,
Believing in a mutual exchange, a balanced scale.
But now I wonder, standing on the side,
A silent observer of their motion,
If that foundation was solid. The crucial question takes root:
If I am liked, or simply “loosely known.”
A chilling suspicion whispers of self-doubt:
Is there a secret vote I didn't see?
A quiet pact to leave the chair unfilled?
Or is the truth more passive, more insidious?
Or is the lack of room inside the spree
The consequence of slow emotional detachment?
It feels like The way a dying fire is slowly stilled,
The warmth receding until only ash remains.
The question I need to ask is too large, too sharp to utter;
It stays in my mind, a burning inscription in the dark:
Do I have friends, or people I just know?
Did I misjudge the reality of the bond?
Did I mistake a flicker for a spark?
The uncertainty is exhausting, forcing a decision:
Is it my cue to turn around and go?
The core of the issue is heartbreaking simplicity:
For if they wanted me, they’d find the space,
They’d actively rearrange the elements of their plan.
They’d reach across the gap to pull me through.
This is the ultimate loneliness I face:
There’s nothing lonelier than a familiar face—
A face I thought knew me—
That looks at everything—but never you.
More Works by Nancy Ann Creed
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