Being alone is footsteps on the sidewalk. Heavy, fast footsteps. Running. Thoughts that trail away behind you to explore the world as you pass it by, music bumping you forward as the beats strike your eardrum like your feet strike the ground. Being alone is ideas and emotions that bottle up throughout the day, at the back of your throat, until you get that phone call and they all come bursting out. Or until your fingers find a pencil, or keyboard and you can scribble them out of your system. It is your journal, growing heavier with ink every day. Being alone is every thing in its place; sweaters hung neatly, pencils in their pencil jar, clothes laid out for morning time. It is making the bed, pillow perfectly plumped, blankets smoothed. Sweeping the floor. Wiping dust away from desk and shelf. Being alone is only two avocados in the shopping cart, boxes full of granola bars that don’t disappear in two days, the type of apple that you like and he doesn’t. It is experimenting with meals, cooking for friends, thinking, not talking, while you wait for veggies to sizzle. Being alone is your reading complete two days ahead of time, essay resting in your folder for a week before you turn it in. It is being on the Dean’s list, and getting straight A’s. It is working because there is nothing you would rather do more. Being alone is looking out across a valley, with awe and humbleness in your mouth, but not saying anything because the person you’d like to share it with isn’t there. Being alone is appreciating things that you never would have seen otherwise, and feeling the world rock your universe.
I don’t mind being alone, but I do miss you.