So it happens that I’m thinking of him again – so strange to refer to him in 3rd person – trying to figure out what was so terrible about this morning. At the same time I’m trying not to think of it, trying not to feel that inexplicable knife-in-the-heart tragedy, because the bite of it still lingers.
It was as if I was never going to see him again, or anyone again, or talk to him, or move without that horrendous pain of nothing ever happening, which is hell for me I think.
I love him. So much. I’m already looking forwards to calling him, to telling him about Chuck’s book and the kid’s meal at Wendy’s and hearing about his day, hearing his voice, telling him that I love him and that thinking of the hickey just makes me smile, even as I write this.
“The Book of Love is long and boring,
No one can lift the damn thing”
I wonder why I’ve been falling apart over him, about sobbing my heart out in the church parking lot. I didn’t even cry like that over Grandpa’s death.
Maybe that’s why.
I want to write him letters. I want to tell him truly how deeply I’m in love with him (and it’s not often that I use the phrase ‘in love,’ and it makes me so happy when he does.)
Back to reality. Maybe.
I miss him. I’ve been counting down the minutes, then the hours, then the days, and I’m trying to be optimistic and finding every moment a victory because it brings me closer to him.
I can’t think about the fact that there are… four days left, four endless thousand-fold days.
On to something else…
On the beach there was a strange quality foreverness, of the sand being so flat and reflecting the pure blue sky so that you could look out directly into some eternity or another. It was as if nothing had ever existed before or after this one sustained moment, framed by the waves of the ocean and the stilled billows of sand, its grass warped by the wind.
Why am I so goddamned tired…? And why does the hotel have a poker next to a gas fireplace.
(Call soon, call soon. Please.)