Where Are You?

I miss you. I dug out my journalspace archives and now I miss you more.

I miss me. The freedom. The intensity. The endless lust.

I miss that bubble of happy hope feeling that you gave me, even over an archived entry ten years later. That's the feeling that kept me coming back. And the multiple orgasms.

I miss your dirty talk and the way you distracted me; on purpose, without knowing it and just generally all the time. I miss the way I distracted you. How close you were. Our lunches.

The ceaseless need to feel you pressed against me; deep inside me. I miss it all.

And then, I remember how it ended. I remember how that earthquake rocked my life and you were gone. You ran.

Do I really blame you?

Couldn't you have thrown me a rope?

And him. I miss him. He did throw me a rope - a long nearly unhelpful rope, but he was there. He distracted me from your distraction. And stalked me until I gave in. His persistence washed you away. And then there were others. Many others.

But I'm still sorry. I never should have called you or answered the phone. I should have let it wait until morning. Marinate and then go over for apology sex. Spent the morning and the afternoon recovering with you without telling you what was wrong. Maybe we would have spent two days having make up sex.

But you ran. And that happy hope bubble popped.