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Sown
Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Your hair on my lap, your pointy nose, your droopy eyes. Your smell, your poreless skin, your big hands. Your feet on my thighs, your tight shoulders, your "igwad lobot". Your muscled chest, your paper-white heels, your cushion-y lips. Your buff legs, your bony knees, your protruding manhood (who pays attention even when I'm not talking to him). I miss everything about you, Payfee, and Thursday seems so far away. And even now as I am tempted to call you as I cry in silence despite Frasier being on, I am trying to be the strong woman you thought you married. Only you were wrong. Because you, and only you, can make me ache and yearn and long and turn me weak like this. We are not built to be apart, Payfee, or should I just speak for myself?

I can't wait for you to come home. I can't quite be myself without you. And most of all, I can't CANNOT believe that of all the days you had to be at San Diego, that stupid wildfire had to happen. Maybe God is trying to send a message?

I love you. Sleep tight.