I am alone.
Mooning. I should be working, but, the white page is very inviting. No, the thoughts are not so easily formed. Not easily translated onto the page. The words. They will not say what the thoughts say.
I am missing my baby.
Should be with him, but aint. He is at home, and I am not with him.
Wonder what he is doing? Probably in the kitchen, cooking. Thin body in a cotton shirt. Sleeveless, stirring and playing with the fire. Does he like cooking, or does he cook for me? His sense of duty is tremendous, and I am the one person that he believes is the centre of his care. I don’t cook. Not much. So, I am always charged with washing the dishes. Like when I was a kid and the adults cooked. Except that we are both adults.
I love him.
Strange thing to say. We have been together, what, seven years. And I can still say that I love him. It is a comfortable love. I do not fear that he will get to see another of the thorns in my body and run away. He knows me all. Inside out. But he still stays with me.
Why does he love me?
I do not know. I am not very sure that I am that lovable.
Selfish, a dreamer, self involved. Yet he does love me.
We are so different from one another, light and its absence, that it is incredible that we love one another. Sometimes I wonder, does he love me? But not when, like this morning, I wake up with him lying across from me. And I pull him close, and we move and nudge each other, trying to fit more comfortably into the other’s naked body. We are two individuals, but at that time, moment, we are one. Together. The bed cannot be too big, or too small. The world is nothing but him and I, together, in each others’ arms.
I hope he is not angry when I go back home.
Sometimes, he is angry at me. Refuses to say why. I stopped playing the guessing game, trying to figure out what was angering him. Can’t read his mind. Too hard, and we do not think alike. What angers me, makes him laugh. What I think minor, he thinks major.
And he still loves me.
I look forward to seeing him. When I get home, and I hold out my arms. He will come to me. He will hold me in his arms, I will hold him in my arms. I will drink in his scent, nuzzle in his nape. He seems to like it when I rub my rough chin on his, feeling his very special warmth and scent, his welcoming breath.
Yes, I look forward to seeing him, hold him in my arms, my love.