Here is how it was supposed to work
I wander, newborn through the world. Until – her, my true companion, my best friend, my one and only. And then we walk the world together, her hand in my mine, looking up now and again to notice we’re getting older, rising with the dawn and sleeping with the dusk, again and again and again, for ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand days, watching hair thin, skin lose its strength, bones their vigor —
the fire of our love will not fade but will continue burning —
and then she dies. And then I sit by her grave a time. And then I die.
And that life is sad, but the best one can hope for.
And it has not yet happened. I have found hers, but lost them too early. Were they not the one, neither, or was I not the one, or are we Digital Nomads too thrifty with our hearts. Where is the one? The great fear of the single man at 27. Absurd and irrational. One third of my life is gone. Memento Mori. I don’t want to be alone when I go.