I did my dishes yesterday after being sick for over a week. In the course of said week I allowed leftover bits of food to rot and congeal in the bottom of my sink. Not a pleasant smell.
Afterward I went into my living room and laid down on my back, on my floor, and listened to Regina Spektor ask me over and over,
"If I kissed you where it's sore,
would you feel better? Better? Better?
Would you feel anything at all?"
My husband comes home Saturday afternoons and leaves again for work Sunday evenings. It's only for the summer. No big deal.
I miss him more every week.
Loneliness is part of mortality. I don't like hearing other people complain about it. I don't like suffering from it. I've just gotta get myself busy with something. Distracted. Preoccupied. Busy.
I'm stuck between feeling sore and not feeling anything at all.
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