It was written so, on a small slip of paper,

Stabbed through the center, nailed upon the board,

Point blank, no complaints, no blood, just paper;

who had posted it was a mystery, but it

resonated, dull tones in the pit of my stomach,

crouched, ready to spring; I gripped the cloth

of my shirt and grimaced, holding the throb

Inside, traveling to my chest, threatening to

burst:

You're lonely, said one.

You're in love, said another.

You're done, said the both of them.

Down, falling, pit, darkness.

Why is Love so lonely and Loneliness so loving?