Alone, not Lonely

I'm jealous that she doesn't have friends
She sings herself to sleep, but wakes up in song
She forgets to need the comfort of company
Company is complicated and confining and confronting
Colourful questions come from quiet isolation
While the loud outside world has produced famine and darkness
Where once there was abundance and light
Sometimes I wonder if she even notices...

I wonder what she thinks of, who, if at all
Perhaps it's a great nothingness, all-consuming
Yet hopefully lonely and joyously solitary
Is it the books that she reads, the very words?
Or perhaps the silence of reading is an excuse
A cover under which to retreat into her own mind
Sometimes I wonder if she even notices...

There's a certain silence about music, quiet or loud
White noise receeds and the voices in your head retreat
She doesn't seem depressed in conversation or even uncomfortable
She vacations in loud arguments with still louder people
Yet relaxes only on her lonesome, even while I watch
Does she find friends in solace or enemies in company?
Does she think that I'm alone too and so lets me watch her?
Maybe, after all, I really am alone
Sometimes I wonder if she even notices...