Loneliness is a relationship

I’m shedding.

Little artifacts of me are left wherever I’ve been.

Poets on two continents have written about the value of one of these single long black strands of protein –  evidence that somebody was there.

But did it ever matter which person was formerly attached to that hair?

Or was it just a confirmation they exist, as they endlessly ask themselves, what am I?

The poets, the dancer, the red-haired boy, the father of my children, the rapist, the collective others, the pedophiles, the narcissist, the artist – they all endlessly asked themselves, what am I?

At least the artist was honest and told me he was the only thing that mattered…yeah, I did like him…

Only one person ever really loved or cared for me.  He crossed the sandlot mid practice to talk to me as I passed by, but I was late meeting new fake girlfriends and didn’t notice what his words meant.  I stopped in my tracks two blocks away when it hit me.  I never talked to him again, I was too terrified.

I would shave my head and give him all the strands I have, to listen at the sandlot again.  I would become a Buddhist for him.  But he wouldn’t ask that of me, because he loved me for who I was.   He didn’t have to ask, what am I?  He was a boy who loved baseball and a strange sad girl.

The artist once said the perfect girl is the one you can never have.  Maybe I am the sandlot boy’s perfect girl.

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