Mattie Bowyer
It is a practiced routine, my loneliness.
I’m used to doing laundry for only one person
Washing a singular spoon, a singular bowl
Sitting there in my own silence, savoring it, soaking it in
And loathing it at the same time
It’s practiced
It’s a practice.
I’ll turn the TV on to a show I’ve seen several times before
And expect it to fill the same void it failed to fill yesterday
And the day before that, and the day before that one
I’ll doodle miscellaneous messages in my notebook
Love notes meant for ghosts
Draw flowers next to those notes
And leave them there like little bouquets next to graves
Dead inside, like me (heh heh).
It’s practiced, I’m telling you
It’s a practice.
Then I’ll read a book (or all of three pages)
Get distracted—is that someone at the door?
Call some people who’ll never call back
It’s like talking to spirits, honestly—they’ll talk to you, sure
But only when they want
Only when they need something
Then again, the living are much the same
And that’s why I prefer to sit alone at home
It’s a practiced routine, my loneliness
It’s the art of being alone.