3.16

You're there, just there. We're not two feet from each other, but the intervening space might as well be two galaxies, two millennia, two realities apart.
Can't you feel me wanting to hold you? I'm honestly amazed that you can't. My desire seems to have taken physical form in the room and now looms large over me like a monster of need. Teratoid, my wants are. Or maybe you have noticed and you've chosen to ignore the feeling, despite the hair and the spittle and the forlorn eyes and the stench.
When you leave, I feel like you ripped out a huge chunk of the insides of me and used it like Gretel to leave a trail of crumbs. I should follow the bits of me to get to you.
This is too dramatic. Simply: I miss you.