The Art of Solitude

I am alone.
But yet, perhaps not.
I am alone only if that
is my desire. My dream.

My silent companion studies me.
It knows me.
My strengths, my hopes,
my weaknesses.

Reassuring, yet dark,
this ominous stranger.
Welcome, yet imposing.
Imposter stalking the night.

In fear I reject my foe,
pushing it back from where it came.
Yet I know that it will return,
by accident, by chance, but not by will.

A cold, soothing terror grips my stomach.
I am comfortably in pain.
The melancholy welcomes me like
a bed welcomes the sick.

This I bear, on and on,
until my silent companion returns,
like a cat in a darkened room,
sitting, watching, waiting.