I am a priest without a god to worship.
I'm a monk without a monastery, an acolyte bereft of his guiding light.
I did not think that I would say this, but I miss you.
Something awful, Cass.
I miss your slight smile, the way your eyes would roll when I would make a stupid joke (which was far too often). I miss the deep pools of azure in which I would lose myself. I miss the long, soft blonde hair that wrapped around your head like a halo, especially as you laid in bed next to me.
I miss the spidery entwining of our legs as you would drift off to sleep; I miss the shortness of breath after we made love, and the way it would slowly return to normal, and eventually deepen to the most ponderous, slow breaths I've seen a person take.
I thought I didn't love you anymore; that I'd grown tired of our togetherness, our proximity. I would hide my fears in our passion, like a fugitivo andante, until I could hide no longer. The straw descended from the most foolish of fights, forever severing the poor camel's overloaded back.
So we separated, declaring that we were better off this way. I went one way, she went another. I moved out; she remained in our old place.
I'd like to think she feels this way, too. I'd like to believe that she misses me.
But now, she haunts my every thought. She flitters through my mind, fleeting shadows of a love that was once so pure, so open, so wonderful. Every time I see a bright blonde mane in the corner of my eyes, I turn to try and find her . . . and find nothing.
Just memories.
Fuck, I'm sick of it.