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It’s not a matter of knowing how to live alone, it’s a matter of knowing how to be satisfied with singularity – or so I think from where I sit in my huddle on the couch, housework done, listening to Ani DiFranco croon a song, imperfectly, as a silent, unfilled evening stretches out longer than the shadows cast by this last gasp of daylight.
An endless scene of snow stretches out just beyond my open back door and I feel exactly that way, the way that cold smells – pure, ephemeral, driven, light.
But with the dark arriving, a certain weight of loneliness will descend, a gravity embodied by all the perfect words I’ve thought yet haven’t spoken and the arc of my supper table’s circle, unbroken except for me.
So I watch the soft shadows creep longer – the tenuous departure of the day is like the touch of a shallow acquaintance’s hand on my arm when there’s no reason to go yet no reason to stay any longer.
Soon there will be nothing left except the bittersweet irony in the task of my unfilled sheets, sheets which are like the snow – crisp, austere, uninvaded and so impatiently unsatisfied with just my tidy haiku imprints.
"All the darkness in the world
cannot put out the light
of one candle"