he’s gone. and i feel it again. that nag. that need.
less than 24 hours ago we were in the same bed and now…
i’ll sleep alone. never completely sated.
i know he’ll be back but this empty feeling. this literally, physically empty feeling. i hate it.
because it means i need him to feel complete. normal. sane. i wonder still if that’s such a bad thing. i’m not dying, mind you. not in a state, as it were.
but i can’t help but worry about growing so attached. and honey, i’m so far past growing. i’m there. this very moment. a wanton parasite.
i dream to leach him dry. i know he’d like it.
i count the days, hours, minutes. i find myself in our bed. hot. for a moment and then it’s gone. i’m left to live with a scent half as pungent. and not poignant at all. pedestrian, really.
fucking prosaic, in fact.
pitiful.
.
.
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from my other blog
