I don't like doing crosswords anyway
You can't sum up the unwritten months in one post, or perhaps you can: we broke up, we worked it out, we broke up, we're together, we're not together, we've decided - no labels. That sentence might be nearly half a year long.
There's no getting him out of my mind. That sentence is over a year long.
Sometimes I think of a lifetime with him, and find myself greedy - is that all - I demand, clutching at the dissolving minutes, every irretrievable minute lost in the ebb of separation. Other times he drives me crazy, in the bad way.
The thing is, we're so often apart that the fantasy is reality. The other day, sitting at his computer talking to me, he said, "I'm getting chills thinking about you being here, lying on my bed reading a book you've pillaged from my library." No starry-eyed reveries about candlelit dinners for two in Venice, lounging around on exotic beaches, sipping cocktails. Just to be real - that's the dream.
And some days, in a rare bout of surreptitious optimism, my mind's eye finds him stretching out in front of me, all around me, all the way to eternity, where if you squint you might see us in old age, in a disgruntled exchange over who gets to do the crossword that morning, while the kettle boils over a whole life well lived.