It’s Friday night and I’m not feeling good. A terrible job interview today and I am beating myself up about it. Accusing myself of self sabotage.
Then I reach out to you on WhatsApp and you don’t answer. The lack of an answer spins my head out. The paranoia is right there under my heart, a knot in my stomach I am sitting here thinking you have gone back to him. Another mend in the constant cycle of break and mend, each one an arrow through my heart.
I was watching Gentleman Jack, a British TV show, and the main character, a lesbian, is seducing a young woman and I imagine doing the same; kissing the back of your hand, then the palm of your hand, then your cheek, and then your mouth, your full, soft lips. I imagine folding you up in my arms, wrapping myself around you, holding you close.
Sometimes I look at you and the yearning for touch becomes visceral, a temptation, an almost irresistible impulse. The urge rises for me to reach out and take your hand. Just that, nothing more, reach out and take your hand. I could reach out but even if a did your hand is miles and miles away even when you sit across a cafe table. But if you reach out, my hand is right there next to yours.
I spend too much time when people that love me are not right here. Too far away, too hard to see and too hard to for me to hold. Life is desperately lonely and how I feel for you is twisting a knife in the open wound.
How long do I have to wait before someone truly loves me? How long before a lover’s kiss?
Alone. Weeping. Again.
Tony's Texts 