My pillow still smells like you, but over the night, the smell will fade. Even as you linger now, you're fleeting. Falling past my fingertips as I fall asleep with you beside me and dream about waking without you again. It aches in my waking world and it hunts me like guilt in my sleep.
I miss you every time you leave— yet still, I see you in all the joys that persevere in your absence. The birds outside scavenging for the seeds we provide, the jokes I hear that I know you would laugh at. The plants that sway in gentle breeze, swooning for you just as I do. The light that dances through the prisms hanging in the windows, fractals scattering in little shards of rainbows. As I write this, the sun slides over to my side of the house and leans in through my window with the same effect. Once the evening ages towards its prime, I'll see them again.
And I'll see you, too. My sunlight, burning brighter by the moments you smile. Your daylight dazes me, I'm reeling every time. I always manage to forget myself, to collect what of me you scatter in your wake. That delirium you dunk me in is more potent than any sleepless night. I feel too loose to be competent, but too careless to mind. So I stretch languidly like a cat in your sunbeam, soaking up the light before you dip below the horizon.
The ensuing hangover is a universal constant to all things that are joyous. Even you, my dear, my light of day, leave me with a headache once you're gone. While there are many instances wherein I prove I am much less competent than I ought to be, drugs are one place I am always very aware of myself in (I will assure you of that to no end). So when the withdrawal hits, I always wonder how to wisen up. I know it's no excuse, to lose every train of thought in your presence, that you are like a drug to me. But it feels true, with how blissful that peace I feel with you is. Nothing matters to me in those moments, which is how exactly the time slips away within them: I care not to monitor that time, for you are there and that is what matters.
I lament the fact that you see me making a fool of myself in your presence. Perhaps that is why I am eternally grateful that you, too, can be just as silly. And that we welcome the silliness. I love my silly.
Even now, as I attempt to write, I feel myself losing track of every sentence I had swirling around in my head. You have that effect on me. I love it. I feel stupid. I love you.
Even after, when I come back to write— I love you. I saw the sun set today, and I love you. So much that it aches.
PS: My previous post was the result of domdrop. I am just stupid. If I could be normal, I would.