For three days in a row I have been craving for a cheese omelet. I made one. If you were here, you would have told me to put mushroom in it. Mushroom and belt pepper. Green, you would say. You would order me to add rosemary, a few pinch of salt and Italian seasoning.
You would ask me to reduce the heat lest I burn the food again. You would make our coffee, a blend of its usual bitterness and overwhelming cream. You would tell me stories about the wonders in Lap land, their clothes and remarkable handwritings.
You would ask me about Nabokov or Woolf or Doyle or Dickens or Gaiman. Or how Plath broke my heart into shards. You know a tap on my shoulder and a kiss on my forehead will lighten things up; you would be generous to shower me with those. If you were here.
But you’re not. Your absence is a compounding pain of all my almosts, my nagging vacuity in this mortal existence. Tonight, it was not Sylvia Plath who dismembered my heart. And all I hold, right now, is a scotch tape to piece it back while I sit here in the shadows.
In its most desperate, human way, I miss you.