There is a time and place for loneliness.

My loneliness sits at a wrought iron chair

in a garden café at twilight,

obviously waiting.

I can find it standing awkwardly

between the covered couches and end tables

of a vacation home

coated in a light layer of greyblue dust.

And it is inside of me,

curled tight like a tea blossom

that explodes sticky hot

in rivulets that

I will absolutely not

allow you to see.