Feste's Lute

I know what I’m about to mention is a paradox of sorts.

It is a representation of the ridiculousness of my mind that, when I miss my love to the point of laying down and sobbing and clutching pillows, I cannot but wish she were just here to cry with me about it. Not to sooth it and relieve it by her presence, but just to join in physical empathy.

She would indeed remedy it completely.

So on mornings like this I find myself wishing for impossibilities, because the possibilities seem almost as far away.

I can’t stop thinking of soft, wet cheeks kissed in streams of mourning. Too many times they’ve been my last touch and remembrance in the months of waiting. And so my hunger increases for them, for sorrow joined… Pain with love and presence seems irresistably alluring. The salt of tears better quenches all and would dearly send me off to a better rest, and Grief would be my welcome companion, if only he’d bring my blue-eyed friend.