I want so badly to be someone, to do something other than to sit here, missing you. I knew I should have bought that book of poetry, sprung for the 45 shekels. Instead I sit here, with only a novel and Tanach for company. Tanach is my favorite book, but it forces me to face myself - and I don't feel ready to do that, quite yet. I wish that you were here, that I could kiss and take you to my bed. I long to feel the curves of your body fitting in and out of mine like pieces in a puzzle. I hate myself for sounding so cliche. Leonard Cohen is singing about a gypsy wife, and I wish I felt beautiful enough to care - or at least that it was warm enough to take my clothes off, so I could drown my loneliness in the caresses of air upon my body.
Did I leave you or did you leave me? Does it matter?
I wish I still loved you enough to cry.
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