To miss someone

For the last year and some months T.'s shouldered the burden of daily pesterings about things great and small. The weather, television, work frustrations, my fears and insecurities. Well, he's been on holiday for two weeks and the emails have been unwritten, unsent, unexpressed. They fester and grow like a grit of sand in an oyster inside my chest and now I'm looking at this thing, this object as imaginary as hope and as real as despair and wondering what the hell I do with it.



But beyond that, I begin to think what I've not been doing or needing or searching out or expressing or dealing with because, for whatever purpose or willingness or aptitude, T.'s become my outlet of intimacy. Is it a rope tying me to a phantom pier or is it a tether keeping me from being adrift? Is it too heavy a burden for something that's essentially an email friendship -- another example of my ability to mis-aim with precision and intensity?



And why the drama? Why not enjoy what it is, ignore what it doesn't mean, stop seeking the shadows and dark corners? Feed the hunger, not the ache. Get some sleep. Stop dreaming of hibernation and smile at Spring.