This evening I sat alone on a park bench, Clair de Lune pouring into my ears, rain breeze softening as she leaned into the curve of my neck. 

I sat looking unintently at the trees stretched out far beyond me, leaves swaying in grace as though Clair de Lune was pouring onto them too. 

I sat unintently as the big birds flew home, followed by the small ones, and everything was music. Everything. 

And I wondered for a second if I was finally comfortable with this overwhelming feeling of being alone in the universe. Of being one with the universe. But then I noticed the empty space next to me. If you were here, this would be perfect. Wouldn't it? No missing pieces. 

Mother says I pay too much attention to the details. That this is how I pluck misery off of the unwitting tree of existence, and stuff it in a drawer to rot. Because that is what misery is: a dying wish. Irreversible. Malignant. Perpetual. 

Mother doesn't know the details are an art. The details are the only reason to stay alive in a world where everything is measured in categories. 

But this evening I sat alone on a park bench, Claire de Lune pouring into my ears, rain breeze softening as she leaned into the curve of my neck. You weren't there but the piano notes sat next to me curved into the shape where you should be. Everything was music. Everything. 

I can't wait to go home and place this evening into my drawer.