If you could touch lonely, it would feel like a worn brass doorknob handle, slightly warm from the last touch, streaked in goodbyes with fingerprinted memories - vivid and fond - which no amount of furrowing of the brow will bring back the one who left.
Lonely is when you can almost see the footprints on cement steps leading out the door, though none were actually left, the moment of walking away having been instantly engraved in your pupils and cannot be unseen, forgotten, retrieved.
It's hearing tiny feet run in the opposite direction and not return for days, only getting seconds of conversations of muddled sentences talking about their day because they're too busy to miss you back. Lonely is padding barefoot through an empty house at midnight and stealing a favorite stuff animal off an empty bed just to feel like you have a part of them with you when they are gone.
Lonely is being surrounded in a crowd of furiously happy friends and acquaintances with a painted smile on your face, keeping pace and faking the facade only to come and go alone; to have the company and companionship end with the night. To feel forgotten in an evening of everlasting photographs.
It's being amongst him and not having him even consider you; to see you as one of the guys and a friend... but. Lonely is feeling invisible when you're in. his. face. and still not enough.
Lonely is eerily quiet in loud groups and unbearably loud in quiet places and disguises itself in shoulder-shaking sobbing shower sessions and empty pint glasses alike. It smells heavily of the sea, where the waters are rough and the shore cannot be seen; tulmultuous and salty. It weighs more than most can lift yet it sits easily on one's shoulders.
The brass doorknob eventually turns cold and I can no longer discern where fingerprints begin and where they end. But the memories remain, remarkably prominent, invoking lonely.