My impending grief overlaps every moment of contentment.
I just want to sit in this dark theatre and know that you’re still there when the lights turn up.
I want someone to miss me when I leave the room like I do for them.
To wonder around the party wondering where I had gone.
My Irish goodbye hurting you.
Cut up my apples and peel my oranges as I was a kid again.
Acts of service.
Labors of love.
My self defiant nature beats the neediness out of me.
When you brush your hand on my chapped knuckles I apply the ointment on myself even if you offer.
Even when I want you to.