When I'm Not With You
When I'm not with you, when you've gotten up and gone to work and I'm alone I lay in bed in the quiet. Watching the kittens, listening to the wind the rain. I drink the tea that you made me before you left.
I say to myself out loud, "You are so lucky".
I sit on the floor and look at the space we inhabit. This enclosure for so many memories already. I look at the evidence you've left behind. Evidence that says you were here and you are coming back.
Sometimes I'm desperate to be alone, but I'm always glad to have you come back.
I think of all the things I should say. I think of the things that maybe I should do. I think about what a real-love relationship should look like, and I throw that out the window. If you know I love you that's enough. There is no point in trying to play a part when it's all just going to feel contrived.
You know me, you know I only like the real, the raw, the alive. You actually know me and that's so scary. When we both know how loudly I can shout, but paradoxly I'm so private. So quiet.
When I'm not with you I marvel about the small things. When I first met you your clothes smelled of your mothers, and now when I open the wardrobe they all smell the same. The bed shows indents from two bodies.
I touch the things you've left, as a reminder to myself that this isn't a joke. This is happening to me, with me, for me, and I'm enjoying it. I'm ok with it.
I think of all the love I have and how much I struggle at times to show you, you demonstrate that I feel you in my heart. It all feels trite though. I want you to know, that even if you wake in the middle of the night. I love you, and I love loving you.