by Beth Portnoy

Alone in the rushing silence,
She craves the quiet of a crowd.
Alone with her screaming thoughts,
She craves the lulls and tides of human being.

Alone with her own existence,
She craves the feel of others.
Alone with a soul she knows in and out,
She craves the strangeness of the world.

Alone in her head,
She craves an escape —
Into the pluralities
Of the masses.
Alone in the silence —
She craves the volume of a crowd.

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