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Location: Midwest, United States

Friday, June 30, 2006

Water, Food and Air

Is it the biologist in me, or is it a characteristically human trait? This urge to classify and characterize? I don’t know. Sometimes I think I skate perilously close to becoming some obsessive taxonomist of human emotions. I guess I’ll leave that for you to judge.

I suffer from intense longings…intense pain. Pain comes in different flavors. Stay awake long enough, night after night after night, for months on end, and you begin to sort and classify your agonies.

Losing a loved one is to lose one’s sustenance. We need water, food and air to live, to survive, to flourish. That is a fundamental, literal, truth. There’s more to it, though. As I weaken, as I thirst and gasp, I’ve come to identify the nourishment I lack.

I miss love-making. I don’t mean the "physical act," although it’s an integral component. Sex belongs in its own category. Let’s call that one erotica. I’ll get to that.

No, to me, love-making is all encompassing. It’s the automatic reflex of smiling whenever I look at her, or simply think of her, and...just as reflexively...offering a prayer of thanks each time. It’s the serenity of snuggling close and sharing warmth in bed at night. It’s all the tender mercies proffered throughout each day…a compliment, a worry or concern for her well being…tasting the coffee first, to make sure it’s just the way she likes it. It’s the fluffing of pillows, the brushing of hair. It’s the bumping of hips as we pass in the hall. It’s kissing her eyelashes and nibbling her ears.

It's simply listening...laughing...crying.

It’s the unexpected kiss on the nape of the neck as she’s bent in concentration. It’s rubbing her feet and drawing a bath. It’s the daily note on the bed stand. It's the squeeze of the hand as you stroll at sundown. Love-making is a constant necessity and constant pleasure. It confers innumerable blessings on both lover and beloved. It is water for the soul. We cannot live very long without it.

I thirst.

Now…erotica…the fuel. It’s not even necessary to be explicit, here. In fact, it would be counter-productive. Erotica is the binding of the bodies to the hearts and souls. It had better be good…no…make that exquisite. Erotica is whatever it takes, whatever floats both boats, whatever moves the earth and makes the bells ring, whatever satiates. It had better be exquisite because it must sustain you through the long years, the hard years, the decades and the seasons, to when the body is worn and frail…but just as hungry as a youth’s.

I hunger.

What I miss, on a constant, daily basis, is her presence. I miss her commentary, wit, insights and idiosyncrasies. I miss her smoldering eyes. I miss her mind, her heart and soul. I miss the sight, scent, taste, feel and sound of her. I miss her aura. She was my air.

I choke and suffocate.

* * *

Music Update: Nothing. Silence.
Hair Update: Past my shoulders again.


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