18 November, 2005

Well... at least it's Friday.

Woke up this morning at the usual time; innumerable snoozes later, got out of bed at 8:15. The only thing that really lifted my spirits at that exact moment was that he had promised to email during the night, after the movie. He emails so infrequently now that I actually feel disappointed they're only one liners, and usually patent inanities or practical/logistical considerations. It seems that he used to show so much of himself in those warming e-missives; now all I get is the light tap of his fingertips stroking the keys, a staccato unintelligible code.

I feel that in fairness I should interject here that what I enjoy most of all is to look into his eyes when we talk, and see the look on his face, almost surpised, when he says he loves me. No amount of emails, however florid, could make up for that.

He didn't email. I was not too surprised. As I booted my computer I had half expected to be surprised. I don't know why... perhaps I selfishly expected that I had effectively conveyed my petty need for trivial caresses like this. These may be small irksome things to me, but there is no way they will ever matter to him, as I've learned from his half-hearted apologies in the past. It's easier for him - and I agree with this technique - to dismiss such quirks as irrationalities. It is an idiotic need I can't suppress, no matter how I try. Amazing, I think to myself, that a poet could be so unreceptive to innocent blissful manifestations of deep love.
I need to stop expecting. I need to go limp and passive and quell some passion.

innocent blissful manifestations of deep love...
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