I have kept myself busy this week:
I took a razor blade to the bottom of my pans
I cleaned the desk *shudder--it's like checking the mail ten times in one day
I did the ever magically replicating laundry
I dusted my books and shined up chess trophies
I took down pictures and cleaned the backs and frames
I cleaned the keyboard--with a Q-tip
I pulled specials off of their shelves and dusted them down
I folded all of the laundry.
I realized that I keep time by his calls. My day is counted away by the space between rings, the moments of silence broken by his words...
And so I wait for my fix. Hours meaningless and defined by the feeling in my veins, the beat of my heart, the race for the phone. The sound of his voice from a thousand miles away...
So I drown in the tragic majesty of life, the beautiful uncertainty of being. As I track time by the space between his calls...