unsent letter


I woke up with that feeling from before, that all the cells of my body were singing for you.  Not loud singing–a quiet hum of desire.  As if my cells were tiny sea creatures, singing for the salty sea water, or for the moon, to pull them in the tide.

I’ve thought of this experience as “my body is thinking about you again.”  It’s a quiet demand, but enough to make me get out of bed.

The feeling was also lonely.  Where are you?  I look for you, but it’s not the real you anymore, who might be in the world, doing stuff, riding around on your scooter and making art or whatever.  It’s some dream-you, or just your light.


I asked my spouse last night, “Can I ask you a question you might not like?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Do you think _______ misses me?”

My spouse thought about it.  “Yeah, I do,” he said.

I wanted him to say yes.  As if you missing me could be a thread, a very thin thread like spider web, connecting us still.  That I’m not alone, from you.


Of course, I could look at social media to find hints of you.  But something incidental is not what I seek.  What I’m looking for is how soft your lips were, in that second dream.  Or the belief that you desire me back, if only for a moment.  That something in you could need me.   Oh, the audacity, to believe I could matter to you.

You’ve lost a ton of people.  Who am I but a lady elsewhere you never met.  I’m desert dwelling irrelevance.  So many of your friends have died–I’ve seen your altar.  All the significant ex-es–do you cry for them?  You loved those people for real, and with your body.  I was imaginary.  But here I am, physical lady, holding myself to myself.

My body is lonely.  I cuddled my spouse’s naked back for a while as he slept and felt bad for bothering him.

Now I’m trying to have faith I can find you elsewhere.  Or you’re inside me already, and I’m like that musk deer looking for its own scent.


A friend’s daughter is going through a breakup, and my friend asked me for advice that she could tell her kid.  I said how we create an empty space, and something good can arrive.  Hard to believe in the moment of anguish, but it’s really true.  Good does come fill it.

I’m laughing now at what I said to her, that the first two weeks are hardest, and the reward pathway will stop jonesing as much, after that.  I didn’t mention the two steps forward, one step back thing also.

One day maybe I’ll remember you in a different way.  I want to enjoy this sacred liminal, when you’re still almost near.  Talking with you is still almost possible, and I still want to.

There’s no need for me to rush through this time.  I can savor the grief as a last gift from you.  I’m kissing the thin little thread.


By Nest

Curious, disabled Earth Goddess, telling the truth.

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