the sea was airtight

Five days without her, counting from now. The house and me, sleeping pets, silent plants. If we had TV I’d turn the news on just to hear someone talking. It’s entertaining, really, how much it upsets me–the memory of her hand on my shoulder, fingers brushing tears off my cheek, whispering be a good girl, now–how silly I am.

When we were still in college, we would go days and days without seeing each other. A date on the weekend, looking forward to the next. That was fine; I liked the space. That was being a real woman, an independent person– I was me and she was she and that’s how I wanted it. And now she’s been gone for three hours and already I can feel the silence invading my head.

You are driving your little sedan on the highway, singing to some bad rock station, swearing at the other drivers–you hate the ones who skip three lanes to get to the exit. You are going home to your family, your annoying teenage brother, that sister I’ve never met, your mother and your cats, and you will have a great time with them, and I will miss you and wait, I will miss you and wait until you come back.

I will lie in our bed and touch myself the way you would, imagine your fingers in my hair, the way you hold me still and tell me I belong to you. I will wake up with your scent on the pillows, soft and full, holding myself tight. I will miss you and wait, miss you and wait until you come back.

2 Responses to the sea was airtight

  1. backlist says:

    a very nice way to cope with the absence.

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