The Whitespace Around Longing
It's been a very long time that I've cried for missing a Significant Other. I missed him because he was gone. Dead. Forever-lost. There was no dimension to the sorrow and the need, it just Was.
Today I cried in that same dimensionless way. It had its beginnings when I said goodbye to Sam in the lobby of the Terminal, but I managed to keep it all together to pass through security and past the immediate area. But when I re-emerged into the Arizona heat to walk 100 yards down a desert-colored covered walkway to a satellite terminal, I was the only person in the world. And in my abject solitude, I wept.
And I cursed myself for it. And in cursing myself, I was angered. And in anger (something I have never been able to sustain), it all came out again.
I have no label for it, no language to aptly name what it is between him and me. Language requires judgement, obviously, and so maybe there's just no deciding the good or the bad, the right or the wrong, the practical magic in the attraction or the dogmatic mundanity to the comfort.
It is What it is. The wordsmith in me bristles in frustration at being consigned to indirect description. The larger humanity in me is enjoying the long overdue sunlight and rampant freedom of movement.
The specialness of it requires no appreciation by anyone other than the two of us. The specialness of Sam largely goes unappreciated: he is original art in a world jam-packed with derivative works.
The heart is full; the head is empty; the belly feels kicked in. How in fuck's name did I ever forget that this is how it's supposed to feel? I hope that I never forget. Ever. Ever again.