Interlude #8

Dreamless, 2007 by Man-Yu Fung

Dreamless, 2007
by Man-Yu Fung

Oh, love, it’s been six months as of today. Six months ago, a part of me died, half my soul ripped away. 

This morning, I woke up alone, with an icy breeze coming through the cracks around my windows, and I felt so desolate, curled up small in a bed that gets bigger every morning I wake up in it.

You were my only source of physical affection. You know I was never really a touchy-feely person; given how I grew up, it’s surprising I ever wanted touch at all. But you, your touch, your warmth…I miss that – I miss you – oh, so much.

Holding hands in the Gardens.

Your hands in my hair.

Kissing in the front seat of my car, waiting for the train.

Your hand on the small of my back.

Your touch always trailed fire. It would start at the base of my spine, curling up and around in a fizzing, snapping double helix until it reached my eyes. A hissed indrawn breath, and all my nerves and every inch of skin would alight, my whole body channeling lightning and love.

You made me luminous, glowing like a moon afire. And you matched me, shine for shine. 

I don’t glow anymore, not the way I did with you. Now, I am a banked fire, curled up and waiting. For what, I don’t know. I don’t want to love again, I don’t even want to try. I still want, so much, what I can’t have. You, only you, always you.

I told you I didn’t know how to live without you. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. 

Oh, love, come home. Come back to me.