Not About Loneliness

I'm not afraid of being alone.  I appreciate the small freedom of sleeping by myself, being able to toss and turn and get up and write and watch TV and have a snack and then go back to sleep.  I like shopping alone, taking walks alone, drinking coffee and reading alone.   I like traveling alone, losing myself in a new place and the same old thoughts.  I even enjoy going to bars alone, savoring the perfect cocktail and taking in the sound of other people's social lives.  And when I want to write, I need the resounding quiet of being entirely alone.
I am afraid of feeling alone but not being alone.   I am afraid of those moments when I am with someone --a boyfriend, friends-- and yet I feel like I am floating inside myself, a heart hovering inside a head, a mere idea of a person.
I am afraid of being alone but not feeling alone.  I dread those days when I walk by myself through parks and down city streets and find my head is filled with memories of the people I used to know, conversations we used to have.  I am afraid of feeling more present in the past than in the moment.  
I find it is the things I've let go that I come to know by heart.
And I am afraid of time, how it moves, how even loves that seemed right take turns for the worse or for something --someone-- else with the ever changing course of hearts and calendar pages.   I am afraid of the places I used to be, the people I used to be with, and the ideas I used to have of the person I would be.  Those are the very things I know by heart.  And yet somehow they all proved me wrong.