It hits me the hardest when I put down my luggage. A stillness settles over me as my heart remembers you are no longer here to promptly sit on it while I try to put everything away. I am defeated.
I will carry the memory of the loss of you with me for several more days before it settles back into the reality of my existence and the loss begins to be normal again.
You aren’t sitting on my lap and incessantly demanding I lie still to make up for the time we lost when I was away.
You aren’t rubbing against my face when I try to use the computer, insistent that all attention should be paid to you. I’ve never had an easier time writing.
a kiss, a touch, a graze, the wind sets fire raging across my skin. not the fire of passion’s grace but the fire of a ravaged face.
nerves read fingers and knives alike and interpret love with increasing spikes of headaches, throbbing, and sharp rebukes a razor’s dance of bio nukes.
The act of love becomes a maze paths drawn anew with the latest phase. he never knows which nerves will measure the touch of pain or the touch of pleasure.
mmorehead 2020
Managing life with chronic illness requires savvy spoons
SavvySpoons 