The air in my little apartment is revitalized, refreshed. I have thrown the windows open and rushed to let the light in. There is new art on the walls, depicting sweet nothings and the nature of the gypsy who loves a vagabond.
Still, there are dishes in the sink, and clothes on the floor. I know the mess will get worse before it gets better, and it overwhelms me. I cast my eyes and in glimpses can take it all in, but I cannot muster the attitude of will to make sense of the chaos.
So I sit, bathed in sunlight and letting my wet hair dry in the breeze. The train goes by again, and I wonder what he's doing, what he's learning, where else he will go today. I smile sheepishly at the little notes he sends, and break the newfound silence in my apartment with my laughter and glee. I ache for him, like a tooth. Its a dull pain, but it throbs and pulses and hurts most at night, when I lay down alone. There is always a Kurtis-shaped space next to me, and it is empty.
Time goes by like the dripping of a faucet: maddeningly slow. It can drive a person crazy, waiting for that dripping to fill up the sink... I feel like I'm waiting for it to fill the bathtub, and the drain is open.
There are still slivers of joy, the silver lining, thin as scotch tape. But they hold me together... Things like his shirt, and the tinkling of a bell. Sweet words and half-made plans, all prop me up so I can see a little better. I'd be lost, a cricket in a forest and no way out, if it weren't for these simple things. Sprinkles on my cake of life.
There is nothing as bittersweet as this...
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