At the risk of sounding completely cliche, loneliness is actually a friend of mine. He knows when to visit, he knows how long to stay, he knows precisely when and how to get under my skin and rattle my bones around a little. He knows when to ring the doorbell, he knows when to stand at the window and wave or just be still and look in to make sure I’m puttering along as best as I can. He knows when to spoon me or when to grab me a blanket. He knows that he can’t stay for long and only brings an overnight bag with two outfits inside when he visits. He knows to leave the door unlocked or partially open; he knows when to lock everything up tightly when he goes. He knows not to visit when I’m on vacation. He knows how bitter he tastes, how I can’t stomach him on my worst nights, how coffee and wine don’t mask his cologne. He knows to appear when I’m out in public, to throw open the windows and the door and push open the screens to let the moths in. He knows he’s expected come summertime. But he also knows that one day when he comes, there will be a ‘for sale’ sign on the front lawn, and the locks will be changed. I think he’ll feel himself then, that loneliness, for a split second. And then he’ll turn and try the house on the right, the one with the blue mailbox and the birdhouse near the porch. He won’t look back. He knows not to follow. He knows not to look for you. He knows that nothing, not even himself, is permanent.