Sunday Mornings

I used to love Sunday mornings. I would try to wake up in time before he got up (because he is an early riser) and I would tuck in closer to him and croodle. I love the smell of him. Even when he had to be gone I would bury my face into his side of the bed and breathe him in. It is some bizarre primeval connection. He had this rugby he bought because he thought I would like it. I loved it because he wore it and it retained his scent better than thin sheets. I still remember the feel of it, the comfort of his arms through it.

I know he loves me. But it was so good to FEEL desirable and loved in his arms. He would get up to go make bacon or pancakes or toast with lashings of butter... but I just wanted him to stay in bed next to me.

This is no joy in life without my dearest friend. Today I woke up and as I often do I curled up to my pillows. A poor substitute for H, and I tried to remember past Sunday mornings of love and trust. But all I feel is unmoored.

I love you, my bright shining star of a friend. Do you feel the lack as much as I do? Have you cauterized your heart? Wherever you are this moment, know I love you and hope.