I miss you enough that it’s physical pain. Maybe it’s not just you. Maybe it’s my home, or my mom.
But I miss you and I wish I could cry to let it out.
I’ll call you tomorrow. You can come and see me, even though that might make me miss you more when you are gone.
I love you.
Think about something else…
So full of feeling, so short of words.
I saw him and I’m still smiling. Sad, no? I’ve become such an airhead.
I still carry your mark.
It’s nothing personal. I just bear the
traces on my faces of everyone
who has touched me, like clay.
My mother shaped my nose and the
tightness of my neck with her worry,
my father my eyes and taut [taught?] shoulders
with his failures.
Time has scarred me, has bent me,
and it will continue to do so:
piling on more old clay to my
thighs, drawing my skin dry and
thin, making my ankles swell
and my eyes water.
And then there’s your thumbprint
in the middle of my face that
I cannot smooth away. Is it
a scar or a bruise from
where you touched me, softly?
Is it a mark of spite or
benediction, a reminder of (our?)
my love or a memory of (our?)
I carry it with me,
and I wonder if it’s
a kindness or a curse
that it reminds me of you.
Only a few more days.
I’m so in love that it brings me to tears, sometimes.
They say there is no such thing as crying from happiness.
What is it, then?
Knowing that, one way or another, it’ll end?
Why do I do this to myself?