Alone.
 
Alone isn’t a new feeling, is it?
 
No, not at all.
 
Alone is kind of a friend. Kind of. You’d like to say that you’re just acquaintances, but that’s not the right word. He’s around too much for that.
 
If alone were a wine, it would be a wine, with a smooth dark oaky roll, but a sharp afterbite. That’s what alone feels like.
 
Not that you’ve had any wine, of course. But that’s what the books say.
 
Alone sidles up to you in the dark, and puts his arm around you. But he’s not repulsive, or cold, or menacing. He’s just there.
 
Familiar.
 
Kind of better than nothing, you guess.
 
You and alone. A pair. Two acquaintances—is that the right word? wandering the world. You and alone. Alone and You. Maybe it’s just You. Or maybe it’s just Alone. You’re not so sure.
 
She’s leaving again. For Ireland. And she might not come back. But that’s okay.
 
Was it too good to last? Or was it all a cruel trick.
 
Was it now.  
 
Alone.
 
He’s just a companion. That’s the right word. Companion.