On Saturdays, I think about you one hundred and eighty-five times… give or take a hundred. Saturdays are slow days. You should see Mondays! If I go a week without feeling your mouth on mine, then multiply those numbers by ten.
And, I’m sorry that I miss you so goddamn much.
I’m sorry to be so obsessed with you. I’m sorry that I remember so vividly your touch, your tongue, your taste. Those thoughts just keep coming back. I keep thinking that time will fade my interest, then I flip the calendar to another month… fuck!
Another month of thinking about you. Another month of missing you. Another month with too few stolen moments. You were right, I just needed more, but I was scared to say it and how dare I say it anyway?
Even now, reading my own words horrifies me. I always find myself on this side of the wanting. I think I told you that.
I’ve decided that maybe my picker is acutely dialed in to the emotionally unavailable. Maybe it’s because I’m just comfortable with sadness and dark thoughts. Not dangerously dark, just blue — dark blue — like how I can’t believe that you could ever really want me anyway (sorry because I DO know it’s not sexy to be so insecure, men like confidence, but I’m only confident on Fridays).
Or, maybe you keep me around until someone better comes along… Or, maybe…
I hope I never find the courage to share this with you. It’s all true of course, but it’s like the whispers of a mad woman and then I’d never forgive myself if you never thought what I think you thought, until I told you.
All this because I fucking miss you.
Image by Pixabay