Yet Another Monologue

I think it’s easier to be lonely when you miss someone. You can think back on the good old days and smile for a second. But I don’t miss anyone. I miss having someone to talk to and touch but that someone isn’t specific. I’ve had a lot of ex lovers but none of them are something to be missed. Or maybe I just can’t remember. I sit and I watch couples. I watched this girl the other day and I could see from the moment I looked at her that she was trying to be lovable. She was giggling and moving slowly. Like she was trying to be a romantic lead. I watched her for a long time. My first thought was to hate her. I started thinking that she was “throwing” herself at him. But then I realized, I just missed that part of me. The me that is trying to look cute and vulnerable. But then I realized she doesn’t exist anymore. Even in my last relationship, she wasn’t there. She is pointless. Worthless. A waste of time. But I miss her very much. I miss seeing a guy and looking like that girl. Sweet, unbroken, completely open. Not me anymore. I’m hard, broken and reserved….Afraid. Lonely. It hits me the worst at night. I have two pillows on my bed. Two pillows. I could put one in the middle or throw the other one off once I get in bed. But no. All the time. Two pillows. They fill the head of my bed like a man would fill my thoughts. Why do I do that to myself? I lay on the left side most of the time. It’s closer to my side table which has my phone. The glowing light makes me feel comforted at night. Until I have to finally put it away. Then I roll over. I roll over and that damn pillow is empty. It glares at me. I try to imagine someone there. Someone I care about. But I don’t care about anyone. Why should I? They’ll just leave. Once they get what they want from me, they’ll be out. So why trouble myself? Deep down I know that but then I look at that pillow and want to be open, and cute again. I pretend someone is there and I laugh. I laugh like he made a really bad joke but I don’t care. He’s too wonderful to call out. I accept him for his corny jokes and flaws. I feel him touch my face as I laugh. It’s warm. But not just on my face. The kind of warm that warms up all of you. Even your insides. I just want to be warm. He makes me warm. Then I feel my arm go numb underneath my body and I lose him. This man. This figment of my imagination. Gone. He doesn’t have a face or a name. Just a feeling. And the feeling disappears as I turn back to my side table. I drift into sleep. Probably a dream about this man. Where we do more than just laugh. We sing and go out. He talks and has face. He touches me again and I feel the same warmth. But then I wake up. Alone. I wipe the drool from my face and I roll over and look at that pillow. Empty. As always. But every time I hope my someone will be there. But he won’t so I get up and make my coffee and look at my already aging face in the mirror. Make some excuse why it’s not as perfect as Leslie’s then accept this is what I look like. This is who I am. And every morning I have to convince myself to fall back in love with this face. Then I go on with my day. Alone. Always alone.