Enough

Being alone is a lot like being with you.  I still take the same walks through Central Park and the East Eighties.  I still find the quiet, proud look of the doorman buildings comforting.  I still feel like Holly Golightly.  I still think you’re better off for knowing better than to love a wild thing and I still end up looking at the sky.  I still order the same take-out and I still read the New Yorker in bed.  I still watch other people and wonder if they’re happier than me, if they know something I don’t even know how to learn.  Being alone is a lot like being with you, only it’s quieter and it seems to take more time.  I don’t know how, exactly, but everything that happens when I’m alone seems to take longer – feeling better, falling asleep, taking a walk, drinking a glass of wine, finishing my dinner.  Being alone is a lot like being with you except, there’s no one to finish my dessert when I’m too full.  There’s no one to start a sentence for me to finish.  Being alone is a lot like being with you; I’m happy enough.  Or I’m drunk.