Never too late to disassociate

Every month or so I get this feeling like I've lost my ability to write
that the things inside my head never come out right
like i've lost my way with no fork in the path
and i'm walking back to myself, trying to remember where i was last
i write to forget what u always seem to remember
the insignificant, small oddities, like a temperature oddity in September
it was awfully cool this year, in fact quite cold
perhaps that was an omen warning of the stories to unfold

the house is empty- although sometimes its awfully full
the laughter and echos of kids who should be at school
im guessing by age if voice, at least, i have no kids of my own
no family, no companions, nothing quite home grown
this house is full - although sometimes its awfully empty

the scariest thing about dying alone
is most certainly wondering if anyone will even remember me