It’s not for not having people that love me. Not at all. And it’s not for not loving people, including a number whose side I would pick up and fly around the world to be at in a moment’s notice if ever they said the word.

And it’s not for not having a dear who I have no doubt would hide me in his basement or attic in the likes of a WWII occupied Europe. And I the same for him. And probably many more like him, both ways.

So no, it’s not for a lack of love. At all.

But sometimes I feel alone in all the world. Sometimes alone wakes me up. Sometimes it cries me to sleep. Sometimes it sits on my chest with no intention of leaving anytime soon and it’s hard to catch my breath.

OK, before you go feeling sorry for me, let me just say there are plenty of times I don’t feel alone and plenty of other times alone is just fine. After all, I love my space and my time and my books and my many-a-gazillion things, like the weathered wood ladders that I found yesterday on the curb and lugged home and washed and put in my bedroom and living room to hold all manner of scarves and cool fabrics and Humlum and more.

I am a girl who can get endlessly curious which means I am not likely ever bored. And I am a girl who gets off on eavesdropping in cafes. (There, I admitted it). And on buses and subways. (Watch out!) And I can look at practically any person I pass on the street and find at least one, if not ten, ways I relate.

All that to say sometimes I don’t give alone a second thought. But last night was not one of those kinds.

Last night was of a lonely variety. Last night was an alone in all the world alone.

Last night was an I am completely on my own alone. Like push comes to shove it’s just me over here alone. In moments like that it’s good no one around me is desperate for an eye because I’m quite sure I’d hawk my left one to feel connected.

But I’m picky on top of that, because not just any old connection will do. I notice I’m not sleeping with the drunk at People’s Republik. I notice I don’t say yes to anyone and everyone. In fact, I don’t say yes to many things.

And I notice this isn’t really much about sleeping. Or sex. Not necessarily, at least, though of course those would be nice too because sometimes a girl just hankers for body. You know?

OK, who’m I kidding: sometimes a body, and skin, and a neck to nuzzle into, are missed so much my molars ache! And maybe I would hawk my other eye. So yes, that would make me blind right about now.

But all this to say it’s about connection. It’s about feeling gotten. It’s about someone saying, “I’ve so been there.” Wanting someone to really get me.

Now comes the cool part. Ready?

So in all this alone, Billy Collins comes by with his poem Marginalia and I absolutely love Billy Collins. (And no, not Billy Collins in person, silly! It’s called figurative. Or so-to-speak. But come to think, I’d hawk my nose right about now for Billy in person!)

Like his name, Billy Collins is an everyday kind of guy: like you, like me. He talks about things like, say, egg salad stains on paper. He’s a disarmingly down-to-earth poet, self-deprecating in the kindest and gentlest of ways.

But most of all I love Billy Collins because he’s so breathtakingly honest. And last night Marginalia is the poem that touched my alone. And while alone didn’t leave, I notice that alone fell asleep in good company and today I woke up to write it down, and maybe you will say that you understand and, maybe even, “I get you, Heidi! I soooo get you!” or “Heidi, want to get a drink?”

(I met Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate from 2001 – 2003, at a reading a few years ago. You can read about that evening here if you’d like.)