Confession

I have a very dear friend who says that I do not “do” alone well.

This worries me.

Is it that I don’t do well alone, or is it that I always see myself alone even when surrounded by people? I am alone. Always. In my own mind. In my home. In my bed.

I am not sure if this ice sculpture (beautiful and sensual, beaded water and reflection) is melting as I get older… or if it just gets thicker, more clear. Soon I may have to put up one of those tacky stickers one installs on a sliding glass door so the birds do not fly into it. All I know is that the longer I carry on, the harder it is to share my “alone”.

It’s not for a lack of desire. I am as open as the summer sky. Ready for the swoop of barn sparrows and bats. See how the edges of the horizon are a darker blue? Can you hear the crickets start far off, coming closer with the dark? I am ready for those warm summer nights to steal the ice wall. I am ready.

Yes, dammit. I am.

I do not do alone well. You are right. But I have lived in my skin alone for so long. I do not know any other way. I am like a drunk who seeks a shot of rye to chase away reality. Give me skin. A kiss. I will make do, until my soul is unclenched.


G.