You are alone. To live is to be lonely.
The gaps between people are, in the end, insurmountable. We are the prisoners of our own consciousnesses, locked up tight in our fleshy contexts, gazing out but never through, never into each other's uncharitable secrets. I may think I know what you're thinking but my thought is wrong, irredeemably wrong, wrong even if close. I see your brow furrow, I think you are angry and feel within myself a greasy sensation, a rage-empathy, a pang, a symptom. But this is not an echo, not a shadow. This is my feeling, not yours, triggered by you but not connected to yours in any real sense. I can act as you act, but I cannot feel exactly as you feel, I cannot know as you know, I cannot be as you are, for I am simply myself, myself irreversibly, myself irredeemably.
And I am small. Insignificant... well, significant to myself, but to the universe? I doubt. When there are countless stars, nebulae, pulsars, swirls that defy colour and description, great expanses of cold void too large for the mind to encompass, impossible numbers of elemental configurations, particles too small to know, tears and sighs unnumbered, heat deaths, supernovae, expansions, light, shadow, cold encroaching - too much. It's all too much.
You are precious to me. You spark something in me. You are not me, not mine, and yet, and yet, I feel what I think you feel so strongly. If this passion that I feel is not what you feel, then so what? Will that matter, when it all comes down?
You are alone. And you always will be. My love.