Twenty percent down...

Today, I miss him. Don't get me wrong, I've missed him since he left but today I REALLY miss him. I feel his absence so much today, more than other days and possibly less than others. But today, I miss him.

I need him here, next to me, holding me, making me laugh. I need him to hug me and tell me everything's going to be okay. That I'm doing a good job. That he misses me as much as I miss him. (Which, if he were here there wouldn't be any missing but that's just semantics.)

I miss his arms. I miss being held, and touched, and grabbed. I miss the unexpected butt-smack. I miss holding his and and feeling his thumb rub mine. I miss pre-sleep snuggles, three kisses, then rolling over to our respective sides (for we are NOT cuddly sleepers). I miss the stubble. I miss when the smile reaches his eyes and for a brief moment I swear they twinkle. I miss him.

I miss him. Today, most of all.


...Eighty percent left.

Scenes From an Airport--The Thinker (2001)

This blog will be full of back and forth...stuff I write now, and stuff I've written previously. This is something I wrote back in April 2001. I'm trying to consolidate.


Scenes From an Airport-The Thinker
 2001


It's when...

You're sitting in an airport halfway between where you have to go and where you really would rather be. The musak at Gate C27 is awful but you recognize every song and you tap your foot, singing the words to yourself, thinking, "Y'know, that Billy Joel/Tom Jones/Neil Diamond etc. really knew what he was talking about." Then you smile-a smile intended for the one who is where you would rather be and not halfway between or where you have to go. Quickly the smile turns into a sigh as they call your flight.

It's when...

Your arms ache because they're empty. And it's only been four hours, 23 minutes, five seconds-six-seven...

It's when...

You actually draft a letter to Crayola saying: "Hey, there's this incredible color green that's been hiding in my friends eyes and you really should look into to because it'd be the best crayon color ever." In hopes that they actually would make it so you can carry the crayon and whenever you ached to look into those eyes, you could pull it out and color whatever was in front of you.
Which would be quite often.
You'd go through a lot of crayons.
A lot.

It's when...

You fold yourself into seat/flotation device 16-F and hug a small monkey to you because right now it's all you've got and you wish you had thought to put some cologne on the monkey, not because it smells, but because it doesn't. Then the realization that you are having a conversation about a monkey wearing cologne with yourself is enough to make you take out your headphones and try not to think. A familiar song fills your ears and singing the words to yourself you think, "Hey, those Backstreet Boys know what they're talking about."

That's when you know you're in trouble.