Alone

I have a big notebook, but nothing to fill it with.
Like a big house, with nary a family to live in it with.
Not even a dog.
Just a bookshelf with lots of books,
and furniture that gives off just enough contemptment that people can pretend that the rooms aren't empty.
As I roll a purple ball point pen across the floor and wish it to roll back with ideas on how to fill the void,
I think about all the ways I could pretend I'm not alone.
I have the stars in the sky and the rays of sunlight that find their way to me to comfort me in my solitude, like an old friend.
I have the dust particles that shine like dull sparkles in the air as they meet the sun for a kiss.
I have the monotonous silence that sits, like a therapeutic companion, not saying anything because sometimes, there isn't anything to say to someone who is alone.
I have the plants in the garden that fix their roots in the ground and usher me to do the same, to plant my feet firm on the ground and stand and go make something for myself to end my lonely tirade.
However, I can not stand and make something for myself because I must keep the floorboards company, because I know what it is like to be very much alone.