Loneliness

What is this place?
My world once had color to it,
but this is shades of gray in winter.
Not the puffy New England snowscape
but the gritty, dirty New York City winter,
where snow is soot-colored
and papers blow by in the bone-chilling wind.

Who are these people?
These complete strangers with the oh, so, familiar faces,
and these my children/not my children...
They who don't seem to hear me/see me/feel me...
Who dismiss me with their eyes,
pity me with their sighs...

I want to talk to someone
without having first to give a long preamble.
To someone who's known me long enough
or knows me well enough
that they can complete my sentences,
my thoughts,
my feelings,
me.

I want to be with someone
when the thought never crosses my mind
that they might want to be somewhere else,
or with someone else
who is more complete, confident, and together
than I.

I am alone, frustrated, alienated,
aloof, while crying inside;
wanting to hit walls,
while what I say is, "Pardon me..."
I know this place...
It is loneliness