Insomnia

I can deal with the drama. It's the absence that's hard.



Go ahead. Ask me what I'm doing at these early hours of the morning. I'm sure you couldn't guess. Here I am, standing by the kitchen counter, face swollen from the constant tears, reeking from cigarettes, fingers shoving moist chunks of barbecue brisket into my mouth.

I'm going to be sick.

I've deleted his messages from my phone. Every one. As far back as October. When you really add up all the days and hours, it probably didn't amount to any more than two or three months. He had such a presence in my mind, though, for this past year that is it difficult to make that disappear. I don't know that I want to.

I miss him.