You know, it really is a struggle despite the passing of six months and today is a bit blacker than usual.
Many say "Oh, it's the feeling of rejection, wounded pride" and so on.
But it isn't. It's the missing - and very often the small things. I remember an occasion when we were discussing the writer Aldous Huxley. I had never read any of his work; "I think you'd enjoy Antic Hay" she said. I found a copy two days ago and have read it. And just like every time I read something interesting, I want to talk with her about it, and of course I can't.
And there will never be anybody with whom I can talk in this way - especially a lover.
And this is horribly depressing and desperately sad and there's not a damned thing I can do about it.
Until the next time
