The Wizard of Odds

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FOA: Sinf-e-Nazuk, I did. For a moment that ended too soon to really remember but too late to really forget. And those lingering memoirs, the little indentations left standing after the dust settled on the mantle of my memories can sometimes make it hard to breath.

My hands remember your back. The suppleness of your flesh, the crude but unforgivably magnetic troughs at the edges of your skin. They remember learning to tell how much to press, and where, by the subtle changes in the way you drew breath.

Assumptions were made. Induced by the not-immature-but-rather-not-mature-enough hubris afforded by the placidity with which I have spend much more of my life than I care to admit. The waiting was a simpler kind of pain, you see, it was like we didn’t have a choice. But this is new. In the context of you. And that is important, as you will soon see, because in many ways, you are new too. Newer, at the very least, newest even. And by the virtue of the lord’s decree, the last, perhaps, too. The longest, at the very least, you are already over half way there. But assumptions were made, yes, erroneous ones. And plans too, like no-yet-mature-enough people tend to do, me and you had a plan or two that couldn’t coincide. I’ve seen people give in for lesser excuses than the ones we had. But giving in never was an option. Not even an assumed one.

My eyes miss yours. They miss how expressive yours can be. Especially in anger, tear stained and afire! They would melt my heart and stoke my ego at the same time, which is why I never backed down but always  apologized. I don’t like hurting you, but healing you I crave.

This will mean very little to anyone. But not to you. Because you will understand in this action there is a promise being broken. This was someone else’s shrine, one not to be shared, repeated or replicated. But now you are up here too. I was not meant to write for you, but now I don’t know what else to do when I miss you this desperately. There is a great deal of romance in loving someone you cannot have, sure, but the profundity inherent and loving someone who will have you and love you right back with just as much ferocity is far more valuable and far more worthy of being cast in words.

I miss folding your fresh out of the dryer clothes. And smelling the mixture of clean laundry and the irrepressible scent of your skin. I miss watching you eat my experiments and pretend to like even the disastrous ones. I miss you lying curled up on the chaise that we built together and you came to claim as yours alone. I miss how territorial you can be and how forgiving at times. How demanding and how giving and how selfish and how selfless. I miss how much of a conundrum you are still to me, a jigsaw puzzle I have only just begun to fathom. I miss the your presence, more so than anything else. How reassuring and life affirming it can be just to have you there, within reach, so I can touch and prove to my palpitating heart that you are real, this has happened, we are together and that there is nothing more worthwhile in life than being loved.

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