Plates, all empty

Sitting at a table, fingers folded in knots at my knees; I watch the people of my life engage in conversation -- with each other and me. I open my mouth once in a while, proclaim a word or two, but it's difficult for me to understand why I don't feel too. I'm not inclined to smile back. I don't care to know why. Perhaps that's why my table is empty, the vast array of plates all empty, and my fingers are left in tangles. I'm by myself but I don't care enough to be lonely.

The other round tables are filled with laughter and understanding. Mine is alone in its desolate propriety, lonesome with its singular occupant staring apathetically to the sea of enjoyment outside. We share the same room, but our worlds are too different to fathom. It's not that I'm afraid to be a companion; it's not that I'm too bereaved to be friendly; I just don't feel the inkling to entertain with all the rest. My spirits are not high, but that doesn't mean I'm not content. Ordinarily I would be amongst them, fixated on generating their attention towards me. But tonight is different.

I'm by myself but I don't care enough to be lonely. Perhaps that's why my table is empty, the vast array of plates all empty, and my fingers are left in tangles at my knees.