im scared you dont miss me

I’m too full today. Disgustingly full. I feel awful. I want to go purge in the toilet but I just drank a dark chocolate mocha so that would taste like hell. I hate today. I guess it hasn’t been all bad but it feels like it. I just miss G and the kids so fucking much. It hurts. The lack of it all hurts. Who knew not being touched would hurt. Who knew not laughing would hurt. Who knew not doing the school run and the bedtime routine and the Saturday night dinners would hurt. 

I’m so scared you don’t miss me. 

I don’t want you to be happy without me. I don’t want this new au pair to be a great experience for anyone. I want it to hurt. I want it to suck. I want you to want me and only me back. I want you to be in as much pain as I am. I’m supposed to be doing job applications and resume submissions and cover letters and I just don’t care about any of it. I just want to die. I want to be back in France. I WANT TO BE WITH YOU.

Tell me you love me without saying a word. Text me something hilarious. Sit outside with me on a hot summer night and sip beer and let the fireflies flicker around us. Come with me to the farmer’s market on Sunday morning. Cook something amazing. Tease me about America being a developing nation. Brush my collarbone. Hold me. Know me. Let me breathe in your cologne again. I don’t want to keep crying over this. I don’t want to keep lying awake at night. I just want to be back with you. I could have it a million times worse, I know. But I just miss you so much. It’s so cliché. But I do. God, just let me go back. Let me go back, please. I want to go back. I want to cleave to G; I want to wrap myself around him, skin on skin, and never leave. I want to lay on top of him and know he’s there. I want to feel him breathe while he sleeps. I want to play with the kids and laugh and run and make jokes and celebrate birthdays and take your son to climbing lessons and get groceries. I want to do all of it again with them. I can’t accept that this year is over. Or I can but it just feels heavy and painful. I don’t want it to be true. 

home, sick.

I'm not doing too well with being home. Because I'm mad at you, you see. Furious. Hurt. Longing. I miss you and those kids more than I know how to say. The missing is weird. It's not like every other time I've missed someone or some place. This time everything is off. The corners don't line up and the experience of the feelings themselves mimics those that would come if you were sitting alone in a bland, finished cellar somewhere. You're there because maybe you were starting laundry or looking for a pair of old work boots. And you've just been running, running, running all day so when you eye a dusty folding chair, you decide to slouch for a minute, massage your face. (Who will know that you rested?) And that's when your mind finally acknowledges the brush of damning, dark thoughts you've been letting float between the hallow of your skull's marrow and brain's squish for days. And you just lounge there, feeling the brush and elbowing its source back and altogether sure that life has never been so hallow.

That's how it feels when I think of you, of France, of everything I gave up.