Today scarlatti is working from home, so it was "camera night" last night.
Something went wrong in chat before I headed upstairs -- no idea what -- and for some reason the fact that she wasn't actually here was particularly, acutely, painfully distressing.
Not her fault. Nobody's fault. But I didn't get much sleep. And I don't think she will have done either.
38 days, if you're interested. I'm almost persuaded that keeping a count is a bad idea. Almost. But not quite.
This was written at about 5am, with a bit of polishing just now.
She watches through the night: I ought to find it pleasant,
But something isn't right, I'd sooner she were present.
The scene inside my head involves some real caressing:
Alone here in my bed, her absence is distressing.
To count the days away: It makes it feel eternal.
September's when we play, you'll read it in my journal.
The scene inside my head can't happen till September:
Alone here in my bed, I'd sooner not remember.
We both are short of sleep: The time zone's no assistance.
The days to come will creep, and meanwhile there's the distance.
The scene inside my head is where I dream of playing:
Alone here in my bed, the wait is too dismaying.
So headspace is the key: It's what I'm always stating.
I dream of her and me, and fall apart from waiting.
The scene inside my head is hauntingly inviting:
Alone here in my bed, the therapy is writing.