Thursday, July 10, 2008
Longing is a strange thing. At dinner tonight, I was asked how my husband was doing, if we missed each other terribly. Despite our newlywed status, I wouldn't say we are needy with one another; if we miss each other, we pine quietly. I hadn't felt it though, that aching tug of the heart. (A tug, yes, but not aching, you see. Nothing so melodramatic.) I was/am perfectly content to continue on here, to be inspired, to write, to think of poetry and poets as the primary most important thing in this world. Our little world of eight, toddling through the woods.
But then we all closed our doors to our rooms in this dorm-esque cabin and that longing, that missing him simply walloped me. Perhaps it is because this is the first night we are on our own, floating about, some going into town in search of liquor, others going for evening strolls, and suddenly, I am completely alone with a spread of non-committed hours facing me. (Well, not entirely true, as we've got enough homework and writing exercises to keep us going through the night to the other end.) But the quiet of my room, I feel dejected peering at the stack of novels I brought to keep me busy gathering dust, the Netflix instant movie window long since closed... The momentum of the week and the exhaustion and these things just aren't enough.
I feel the compulsion to crowd myself into his arms. I want to nuzzle up against him, feel his arms around me, whisper lines of poems dancing through my head in his ear. Soon, soon.