Alone

There's nothing here but me and my memories, my desires, my regrets. It's quiet, except for the almost unheard music from downstairs, of which I can distinguish little apart from a syncopated bass beat, irregular like the beating of my ailing heart.

I sit here in this cream painted box, fifteen feet by eight, dead, blank television in the corner, soon to be joined by myself in that deadness and blankness, if the aching in my chest is anything to go by, and yet the discomfort, rather than scattering my thoughts, has the effect of concentrating the mind. All I can think of is love and loss, how much I loved, how much I lost, all those years of life wasted because my dreams and yours didn't quite mesh together. I don't know why it didn't work, you said, something inside just wouldn't let me.

Something. Inside. All that happiness, just thrown away like the dead stems of the flowers from the vase, flowers beautiful while they bloom, but soon fading and dying without nourishment from the roots. So we moved on to other people, other places, but, for me at least, it was never the same. My thoughts, like the moth drawn to the flame, were always drawn to you. How it could have been. My attempts at substitution were doomed to failure, because my heart wasn't in it, the others could never be, would never be you. But then, you're not you either, now. The you I fell in love with is gone forever, swept away in the inexorable current of the passage of time. If I met you again now, the reality of the present would eclipse the lambent beauty of my memory, taking away even that small piece of the vanished past. and then, truly, I would be alone.

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Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B