That which is missing

not all that often
just now and then
ghosts walk
like now
when i pushed a sock
down past my ankle
pulling it off
to throw in the wash
and my hand was surprised
at the lack of a chain
a paper clip chain
that linked me to you.
sometimes
absence
is a presence.

I've been feeling absence lately. Voids. The sadist is sick. Really sick. It's hard to imagine him being felled by bacteria, but so it is. I picture him beached on his sofa, a giant whale held in bondage by tiny creatures too small to be defeated, powerful in their unity. Poor Gulliver. There is a temptation to chuckle at the image of him weak and silent and sleeping for days, he whose hand has hit me almost as painfully as he allowed that nasty wood strip to impact my butt. But I can't laugh. I admit to a fondness for him. I miss his stern words, his imposed control, his arousing words thrown at me like Mardi Gras beads into a crowd. Except he throws them only at me, to be woven into poems and stories for his pleasure alone.

I shouldn't.
But I like him.
And I miss him.

And then there's the philosopher. He says he's having a very hard time. He says he's down, but I shouldn't worry. That he'll be ok. But I do worry. It was a very hard week for me and I needed him and he wasn't there. I had, I think, a couple of short messages from him. Maybe three? I can't remember. It was a very hard week and all I could feel was that I was scared and torn and needed to be a shoulder for my sister to cry on while there was nowhere a shoulder for me.

He must be having a very hard time. I know what it's like. I do. You're depressed, you're empty, you have nothing to give. That was one reason for breaking up with me - to relieve him of that responsibility of being there for me, of looking after me, of putting up with me, while he went through the trials of his dissertation. And when he allowed himself to admit that yes, ok, we are still more than friends to each other, I promised that there would still be nothing expected of him till he was done. Till he could handle it. He would allow me to write as much as I wanted to - needed to - and I wouldn't expect a response. I offered this, in good faith, and mostly I can stick with it. Because it's this or nothing, and I've already had nothing, and I don't know of anyone I would want instead. Before or now.

But still.
I missed him.
I needed him.

And now I'm worn out.

Things are better. My mom is better. They cemented her vertebra back together (really!), the pain is reduced, and they sprang her from the hospital to the nursing section of the place where they live. My dad doesn't have to commute to the hospital any more - good thing, because I hate to think of him driving at all.

I feel like I'm getting a cold. Probably from the stress. Not from my demon muse, as I haven't seen him since my birthday over 2 weeks ago. It's the stress. It depresses the immune system. But if it doesn't blossom I'll drive up there Friday and come back Monday and then I'll really need someone to look after me.

I wish I could take Marko with. Unfortunately, he hates to travel and would yowl the whole way. But I wish I could have him there. Staying near me, snuggling against me for warmth and love and reassurance.

I know what that feels like.

The poem that began this post... I wrote it for the philosopher. It started as an e-mail. And then I brought it here. I'm not sure why. Maybe so it wouldn't feel like a throwaway.

I'm finding myself wanting to address him as master. I haven't done that since last summer. Since he broke up with me. I don't know why it keeps coming into my mind now.

"i miss you, master..."

It feels good. And yes, I know why... because even as there was perhaps always a slight bemused detachment behind our D/s interactions, I always felt taken care of. For-real taken care of. And I need that right now.

But I'll be ok, John.
I'll come through.
Taking care of me isn't your job right now.
Now
it's my job
to take care of
you.