Satiety.

Sometimes a person will crumble into a pile of dust under the weight of hotel room blankets, and there's not much to do about it but wait until the pieces scatter in the wind. Sometimes my heart grows heavy for no particular reason at all, excepting of course for the pressure of unfamiliar lips against mine, the far too rapid passage of time. These days drift one into the other, blurring at the edges until suddenly it's nearly June and not one but two brand new human beings are set to cause me worry, not to mention the two that are taking the long and winding path.

I am world-weary, not so much irate over injustices big and small as I am indifferent, not so much indifferent as cautious. He knows exactly how tall I am, to the half inch, and part of me wonders why on earth would this piece of irrelevant information be filed away in his half-empty mind. But part of me remembers that he thinks of me daily, and, well, there's not so much I can do about it. And so with my dying sense of compassion guiding me by the all too prominent nose, I'm stepping delicately, dreading the coming of June and his return to breathing distance. This is so not about what you think it's about.

Once I wrote this:

I ate all the pepperoni from the top of the pizza while he was in the shower, a decadent glass of last night's champagne whetting my appetite more than sating it. And so it has been this far too short long week, when each time we've attended to our hungers we've merely aroused them further, when each night finds us falling into a deeper and deeper sleep.

And this is something so unfamiliar that it's hard to believe I could ever think such a thing, let alone put words to print, but there it is, not laughing so much as questioning. And in answer I've booked two trips in two weeks, because I'm pretty sure June can't catch me if I keep flying the fuck out of town.