I do not talk to myself. When I talk and I am alone, I am speaking to those that were once with me. They may have been here many years ago, or they may have been here 16 days ago. But I talk to them still.
Last night it rained. It came down unexpectedly. I ignored the familiar sounds. I shut the window because my bare feet were getting cold. It was late and I pulled the covers in around me and I told my head to tell my heart to calm itself so I could sleep. It had been a long 16 days and I was tired and needed rest.
When I woke up, it was morning and the sun was bright and the birds sang loud in the little tree outside my room. I never pulled back the curtains, but I could tell that it was beautiful out there. And there was a wind blowing against the windows. I knew it would be a lonely night to follow.
That afternoon I read the book given to me by a woman that once loved me. Holding it in my lap made me remember when we had our good times and I wished that it was she in my lap instead.
The wind grew quiet and the sun rolled out west again. And it was time for a drink. I poured the drink and toasted to my love. Then as it burned down my throat and into my belly, it became obvious that I was only talking to myself after all.