One definition of loneliness
is learning that your favorite author,
the one you really understand,
the one you’re sure would’ve really gotten you,
the one that took your stupid happiness and your boring depression
and made you underline it -- even put a star or exclamation point next to it --
killed himself because he decided it wasn’t worth it.
His death turned a great writer into just a dead body in an instant
but was recorded as approximately
between the middle of September and October
because no one called or came over.
He rotted in front of a window for weeks
until a police man found him.