“I am alone but I am not lonely” is what I say to myself. I have thoughts,  words, memories screaming through my body, keeping me busy, tormenting me. Blood drips into the bathwater I substitute for human touch. I can see my pain now, I have a reason to cry, but my bathwater chills and ideas of someone holding me die and I’m alone again, but not lonely. I have dishes to do and I remember doing them with her, and her memory keeps me company. The dishwater chills as I take my time, stretching the moment. Any longer and my hands would numb like my heart. I am alone again, but not lonely. I have a bed to crawl into and a pillow to hold like I once held somebody. I have her kiss imprinted on my memory and I let that lull me to sleep. I am alone and maybe I am lonely.