Thursday, February 13, 2014

 
I am not always thinking sweetly of you. I am thinking angrily or indignantly or sulkily, quite often, but I am never not thinking of you. More often than not I am just worried about you, concerned and distressed about my baby lamb being tired or unhappy–and of course often it is with mad, mad passion and sometimes it is naughty, sometimes, only sometimes is it dirty or even sadistic. You are all over me, in sorrow or in joy, all of the time – Oh yes in drunkenness too, in conversation, in work, with every breath and heart-beat.” 
 
—  Laurence Olivier, from a letter to Vivien Leigh

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

and we're back to hell


The fleeting touches, the lingering kisses... It all seems so far away now; as if it was all just a long, beautiful dream. Did I really fall asleep in your arms those nights? Now that I'm thousands of miles away from you, it all seemed so surreal.

But it must've happened. Otherwise I wouldn't feel so empty right now, alone in my room, crying for the hundredth time since I left you two days ago. I wouldn't feel as if there is a gaping wound in my chest, aching to be whole again. I can never fathom how we can be so forcefully and helplessly separated when we love each other as we do. How is it possible that there is nothing to be done? I hate it. I hate not being close to you, I hate not being able to touch you when I want to, I hate that you're not here to kiss and hug me when I'm weeping my eyes out.

I don't know how I'm going to get through this this time.