Nothing compares to you
It was a numbers game. More than one. Double digits. A dozen or two. And then keep on counting. One after the other and the one after that. Faces became figures and names, digits. Anonymized data on a mental spreadsheet. I wasn’t a lover, but a mathematician. Adding up and multiplying. Stacking up in the charts.
In the midst of this pandemic, forced into reclusion, existential questions reverberate in my mind. This aloneness is at the center of such philosophical pondering. This lack of a partner, this singleness that I keep coming back to all the time. I can point my finger at so many points in my life where I could have retired from this bachelor’s status. Where I could have paved the path to a family, instead of dwelling in room full of open doors and endless freedom to wander about. And here I am: constantly looking back.
The world is fucked. My ankle is not quite right. My life’s come to a standstill and all I have now is my past. But I can’t spend these days in quarantine living with this… ghost. It won’t comfort me when I’m sad nor make love to me in the dark. It won’t help me fix dinner or walk with me in the park. It won’t watch some Netflix crap on my tv and cuddle with me in my tiny couch. It won’t spoon with me until I fall asleep and wake me up in the middle of the night, when it drinks a glass of water or turns around.
I wonder if things will ever get better or if I already peaked and all that’s left for me is the knockoff version of what I once had.