prosaic

he’s gone. and i feel it again.  that nag.  that need.

less than 24 hours ago we were in the same bed and now…

i’ll sleep alone.  never completely sated.

i know he’ll be back but this empty feeling.  this literally, physically empty feeling.  i hate it.

because it means i need him to feel complete.  normal.  sane.  i wonder still if that’s such a bad thing.  i’m not dying, mind you.  not in a state, as it were. 

but i can’t help but worry about growing so attached.  and honey, i’m so far past growing.  i’m there.  this very moment.  a wanton parasite. 

i dream to leach him dry.  i know he’d like it.

i count the days, hours, minutes.  i find myself in our bed.  hot.  for a moment and then it’s gone.  i’m left to live with a scent half as pungent.  and not poignant at all.  pedestrian, really.

fucking prosaic, in fact.

pitiful.