I've spent much of today thinking about your mouth: your lips, your teeth, your tongue. I've spent too much time on it.
Sometimes, I'm overcome by my physical desire for you, as if I've been traumatized by it. It's kind of like the feeling after being in a car crash...you're walking down the street, just living your normal life, and suddenly, you hear the cracking glass, the screeching tires. I'm living my life, teaching and writing and thinking and breathing, and all of a sudden, all I can see is your face. All I can see is your mouth. I feel paralyzed by it, and thrilled, and afraid.
My life has been fogged, like a mirror, by your breath. I wipe a little window to see through, and then I invite you back to heat the space all up again.
I'm still, oddly, enjoying this time alone. I am feeling much better about it after seeing you a few days ago and reading your sweet, sweet letter, but even if I am not comfortable with you out of my life, I am comfortable with you out of my house. I am proud of myself for coming to a place where I can recognize my need for separation from you.
I hope you are healing. I know that there's not likely to be much more time before you are going to want to come home, and I'm afraid of it. We aren't ready to live together. I won't tell you no. My fear is that we will continue to come together and separate, come together and separate, until I finally reach a point where I break.
Or that I won't ever reach that point.
I love you.