plural

It’s an early day, but they’re all early days lately. I’m in bed for warmth, but what else apart from sleeping would I be doing? I think I used up my lifetime supply of company, no new takers, and none of my old romances want another shot. We’re at the long count now, though it’s only me doing the counting. The days drag as time goes flying by, not even looking where it goes. I’m a little closer to the end than I was yesterday, come tomorrow I hope to be a little closer. I’m a little further from everyone than I was even a few hours ago, come tomorrow I’ll be further still. Empty save need and want and whining, the clock keeps plodding away.

About now is when I would pad out the page with a few neat details: the tiny white scars on my knuckles, the ringed halo of the shade of the reading lamp, the recorded voices singing todays hits. About now I’d lift the melody or plays some scales. Wasting everybody’s time and patience because I have a hard time letting a habit die. Wasting word after word because after a long dull life of vanishing I am suddenly afraid to disappear. This wanting something once the nothing takes ahold. This wanting something because of the way she said your name.

Days go by and I barely speak to anyone. Months go by and no one’s checking in. I suppose I took it all for granted, but I guess I was always the uninvited guest, the unspoken plus one. The incidental plural, not with or of but somehow along for the ride. Everyone was going somewhere, and now everybody’s gone. I get up, I go to bed, I walk in small circles and repeat myself. The world turns and turns. I make an early night of it. There’s more to dread tomorrow, and tomorrow never comes.