Solitude is the color of a behemoth, barren field
of dying golden wheat.
It sounds like a rock concert with ear plugs on.
It tastes like a food you used to love, but now
you are allergic to it, an unimportant morsel
that can ruin you life forever.
It smells like the memory from childhood: the one that takes you back to a long-forgotten forest that you have no hope of going back to.
It looks like a slight, tired story, written on a face, the world unsuspecting of the origin.
It makes me feel like I lost true love.

Solitude is the fading sepia of an old photograph.
It sounds like a lone voice in a room with no other noise, but no one hears it anyway.
It tastes like flat soda that is just a few days old, all the carbonation gone.
It smells like the fading whiff of his cologne,
or her perfume,
And it looks like the flapping coattails of Hope
as you watch him turn a corner.
It makes me feel forgotten by the world, while I’m still standing in plain sight.

Solitude is the color of your own deep eyes that you cannot see because you don’t have a mirror.
It sounds like unused vocal chords, trying to make a sound after silence for so long.
It tastes like the bottom of another bottle, drinking away interested company.
It smells like lung-crushing tobacco, the way that someone else’s mistakes can end up killing you.
It looks like invisible walls, that everyone can see, put up around you letting no sunshine in.
It makes me feel like I’m drowning in an ocean of helpless empathy.

Solitude is an ear-piercing cry for help that no one cares enough to answer.