… some days …

This rain is relentless. I have been in solitude – this house/pet sitting – for days now and there is something about just seeing people passing by through windows, communicating only via texts and emails, the absence of others reaching out to me that results in a sort of dreamy un-reality, a fugue. I lose purchase with what is and swirl and whirl and wander about in what might have been, what might be.

Some days I miss you so badly I think I might actually implode from it. Though you were never real. I wonder if you read this, although, I know that is impossible where you are – or, I don’t actually know it to be impossible, but I tell myself it is impossible. I suspect it is impossible. But do you feel me there – in the way I so often feel you here?

So many years since you’ve been gone and we will never see one another again, or, so I believe to be the case since I have lost what little faith I once had, but still, I wonder, where you are – there – across those borders neither of us can cross (do you even speak or hear this language there?) do you, too, have these periods – these days – where every move, every thought is interrupted by having to wipe away the wispy cobweb strands of “used to be” and “might have been” that is all that is left of who we were?

Today, my phone has lost the will and ability to charge. I’ve turned it off. So I can’t be reached but once every few hours when I turn it on briefly to make sure there is nothing of an emergency nature, to make sure no one wants to reach me – which is a laugh, right? No one has much been trying to reach me anyway. Or, at all. Or, even, answering me much. I am drinking real English tea, boiled water and steeped leaves, and reading, reading, reading, and making notes for the work I am doing – work? – the writing I am trying to do – and I am lapsed into an almost coma of melancholy for some reason, I cannot get you out of my mind, out of my heart, off of my soul, as if – once again – you are vampiring away what is best of me, borrowing and becoming it, and leaving me behind all over again, turning me into something forgotten or rotten or … I can’t.

Back to my books. And I believe there are hours of ice skating on television today. I have the telly on but silenced, waiting for the skating to begin. I will lose myself there as well.

I am un-tethered then. Out of reach. Turned off and away. And still . . . I feel you coming through. As I said, I no longer believe you can ever hear me (or ever heard me) but please . . .

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