In my letters to you,
if I indeed wrote letters to you,
I would write everything, and also nothing,
nothing at all, of any real substance,
and you would eat my everything,
and my nothing too,
and you would savor every bit of it,
you would gobble all my words,
that fill those pages and pages,
and all the nothing and the everything of those words,
those words of longing, and missing, and loneliness,
those words of pining melancholy,
silly, really,
over your absence, the vacancy,
and you would soon realize,
that without you, my love,
I grow ever more impatient,
seeking whatever it is
anything, something,
that reminds me
of your face, your hands, your scent,
so to keep me grounded
and present
and not so fucking bored,
in my moments spent with others,
people who are not you,
but will just have to do,
for now,
I guess.
And when my bed is empty
it remains chilly,
the blankets stay tight,
where you always lay,
to my right,
the pillow, like a cold, hard rock,
I punch it just to make an indent,
the sheets stay neat,
and tucked,
And I want desperately for you to bother them,
to mess up my bed with your being,
your rolling and twisting,
your legs locking and pushing,
I want to feel the waves of your body,
your warmth, and night noises, and breathing,
you alive next to me while I’m curled in a little ball,
so safe I feel, and normal, and loved
my hand slightly, lightly touching,
your arm, just a small touch,
a connection powerful and deep
sometimes reaching for your fingers,
to hold your hand in my sleep,
and you gently squeeze back,
because you are there too, aware
in the moment,
breathing my breath,
and making night noises,
with me.
Oh Love,
when I’m alone, and just thinking, and wishing,
and you are missing,
when you are missing from my space,
my heart beats differently
it slows, to a trudge,
just a heavy stone rolling,
and I grow evermore indignant,
to the core,
annoyed with the slowness,
the plodding passage of time,
so I snap, and I bite,
my agitation without you,
a pathetic plight,
when you are gone from me,
I selfishly whine,
and mostly?
Mostly I just fritter away my time,
floating, bobbing, in seas of blue,
Oh dear love,
dear sweet person, true
when you are missing from me,
I go missing too.
*And it’s more than a little ridiculous.