It’s 10:01 am on a Tuesday in March and I am lonely. I’m sitting in my ‘writing chair’ looking out at the snow that has accumulated overnight and wishing I had someone to talk to. I don’t even have anything special to talk about, I just miss mornings with a partner.
I miss the slow mornings when we would make breakfast or walk to the coffee shop and I miss the hasty mornings when we would barely have time to kiss each other goodbye.
I miss the little bump of excitement we would both experience after our first sip of coffee, how it animated our familiar banter.
I miss the steady stream of touch that I’ve grown so accustomed to. The kiss on the cheek, the lingering hug, the ‘let’s just stay in bed all day’ back arch snuggle.
I’m not just in withdrawal emotionally, my body feels it to. He is imprinted on my skin. Like toe marks on a plush carpet, fading but still present.
This morning I understand why people stay in relationships that are unhealthy: They are trading one pain for another. They are choosing lifelessness over loneliness.
In sitting with this peculiar pain and writing through it, I notice that it changes. It evolves. For a few moments it’s too much to bear, then in the next it releases its grasp. Two minutes pass and I think I can go on, thankful that I didn’t act on my fleeting impulse.