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Words sting and comfort. Unguarded presence, his text to my yearning in a moments sigh. Am I unloved or is now? Can I comfort the then of him in my tomorrow, or is there no tomorrow? I taste love, pain, desire and turn again to read.

I'm tired; haven't slept properly for days. But I want to capture this feeling, to remember it when it's gone away. I ache. I really almost physically ache. It comes and gos, and at its ebb I just want the pain to go away, and in the floes I forget that its there, and smile and laugh and listen and try to help other people to take away their own pain. But I hold it, because for now, until I let it all go away, the pain contains hope. And there is nothing more exquisite, more beautiful, than the hope of love. And now I've put my pain onto the page and the sensible part of me returns to tell me that I'm a soppy git who ought to be watching my cooking. It's like... it's like the water coming into a harbour that's slowly silting up and becoming land: the transient waves on top of the waves of tides on top of the slow movement to there being no tides there anymore, just the flat calm of drying mud, the first sprinklings of growing seeds and the first birds drifting singing above them, claiming new territory with their songs.