there is a loneliness which infiltrates the marrow, inescapably so, sinking into the fibers of my existence and entwining, embedding itself. it isn't sorrow, and it doesn't ache, or even hurt at all, but it is constant, like gravity or scars or the rotation of the earth, and there's no telling where it ends and I begin, and I'm not sure either does. I am alone entirely. there's a haunting freedom in saying so, and each time I whisper that truth into a coffee mug grown cold or a dinner served later than intended or the hurried morning moments of a bubbling-over day, I hear a little less echo. the reverberations of my fears diminishing bit by bit. these days, loneliness is a fixture of my existence like plumbing, and easily ignored until it springs a leak, and I flood, and find I must bail my own soggy self out. nothing happened to prompt this unveiling - no bewildering night spent tossing or turning, no morning filled with error and confusion. in fact, it's just a day like any other: me, alone with my heart and my thoughts, a mad mix of bliss and determination, somewhere between selves, making a home for my girl and finding that loneliness need not be lonely.