Across the universe of what ends up being only my head often echoes the lyrics of seeming thousands of tunes which so commonly find permanent perch while sensations of holding my child’s hand along the zoo path or listening to the puttering pouting sleeping lips of my wife exhale amid daytime dreams while I knot my necktie for another day lose footing regardless of my wish to recall.

“What do I do when my love is away?”…

“Does it worry you to be alone?”

It seemed simple enough to assume this meaning as the absence of a girl, but I wonder instead now if the query regards the vacation of the emotion.

I cannot feel at the end of the day, and yet I’m not sad to be on my own.

I get by without owning any friends. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be high because I lack any friends. I don’t need anybody, not even anyone to love.

At least, in this vacuum that is living but no longer a life I need no one and nothing because love is a forgotten component of my whole. I have not an empty space in my heart. That bubble is filled with the inertia of sunsets becoming sunrises amid the vibrations of alarmclock air, of the involuntarily breathing I’ve accomplished during my dreams so much more meaningful than the visions my eyeglasses bring into focus as my feet hit the floor.

Which is to say, I get by.