16 December

Simon.

There are days, whole entire days, even, when I don’t think of you. When I don’t feel like some hobbled amputee who has lost a leg or an arm or a left hemisphere. I can even see you. We can talk. Nice little things, books, friends, plans… and not have it feel like soggy breadcrumbs, left by the ducks to rot and decay on the water’s face. We can do that quick little friend hug, one arm and a quick pat, looking to the left or right to show it’s just a formality. Just a habit. And I can do that and not feel out the old familiar place where I fit always, so tenderly. And not want to settle there, and not think about the weight of your arms or the rough, raw scratch of your jawline. Not imagine grabbing the back of your shirt in fists and speaking your name, and sobbing out these last 12 years. Or your hand in my hair, and your lips on my ear breathing words and sighs and promises and other impossible things.

There are days that I can hear some grand new philosophy and not think of how much I want to hash it all out with you. Days when I can eat my soup and watch the rain collect in the rocky path outside the window and not remember how good rainy days were. Not think once of that night in the storm and the firelight and the sound of the rain at the window and the thunder that shook the walls and the way things blurred and time got watery and wavered and the feel of you so, so close.