One Is the Loneliest Number

619

Hutch deals with Starsky’s death.

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One cup of coffee was poured
One plate, knife, fork and spoon set on the table
One breakfast being mindlessly prepared

One shower had already been taken
One towel and washcloth set precisely back in place to dry

Everything he did these days he had to consciously revise for only one
Too often he forgot and the pain of reminder reopened the wound that would not heal

Time was not helping as everywhere he looked there was the proof of two
Two closets, two alarm clocks, two sides of the bed, two-car garage, two names on the mail and on the cheques

One left to deal with what two had created

Even his work had demanded two
And he knew there was only one who could fill that role

Two reduced to one was not good math
Two could share a laugh, a pain, a joy, a love

One could only mourn for what was lost

Two had walked and talked and dreamed
Two had somehow moulded into one

Without the two there was no “one”
And if there was no “one”, then he was no more

He felt no pain as he slowly drifted to the floor
Being held by two arms that once again created “the one”