and I cannot stop writing, so many emotions and memories and desires simmering inside me. You must be sleeping now. Most would cherish their lover's sleeping face, soft and dewey with dream. For me, the thought of you sleeping fills me with rage and bitterness. Your sleep is your escape, your denial of my pain, my love. And I am even robbed of being able to see your face, caress your vulnerability. I am robbed of cradling your sleeping form, nestled in blankets so many hundreds of miles away.
All I have is the memory of your words, your witticisms, clips of our past conversations, which I pour over, sniffing and tasting each morsel, as if I were a starving poet.
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