I miss you.
When I miss you I have these intense dreams. Fragments of books I've read and movies I've seen. The part of my life that has yet to come true, mixed with an existence as real as marrow. We cannot survive without marrow you know? We, like I mean it. We, like you'd say it.
The bitterness is not lost on me. And slowly, it is washing me away. Just like your blessed sea. Or maybe it is pulling the past over me like a security blanket. I'm not sure. Eternally speaking, the past is the present. What we lived then is what we live now; married within a distance nothing short of the greatest of space.
I'm going to go back to setting fire by poem, and stalking without apology. I have no shame for my wandering, or illusions about a past I was not strong enough to keep connection with. Not content, but filled with a moment I've known over and over. I try to kiss you, expecting you won't let me, as if the rejection has been scripted. And just as I've given up for lack of resistance, you push back.
I can almost conjure up the pushing all by myself.