Sunday, November 27, 2016

November 26

In French, they don't say "I miss you". They say, "tu me manques." It more directly translates to "you are missing from me". It's an often romanticized translation. I know I told it to you once in one of my many proclamations of devotion.  And here it is, true. You are missing from me. Like a severed limb.  Nothing but a gnarled stump now, tender pink flesh grown over with brand new, baby-pink skin and sinewy white scar tissue. And I'll wear you like this forever now. The public reminder of what didn't kill me. You'll stuff yourself with empty women and none of them will taste like the bite you took of me.  And I'll sit at my dining table with my grandkids asking me to pull back my sleeves and tell them about the monster who left those marks. And I'll smile at the missing pieces, knowing you're still hungry, and I'm still alive.  Romantic, huh, the way you're missing from me?

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