kagablog

Having lunch with her today I realise how much I’ve missed her. I smiled just looking at her. The way she smiles deeply, for the same reason, that she has missed just looking at you. And the two of you just sit there, just grinning, just looking at each other. And the need to just touch her, hold her hand, slide your hand into her; stroke her face, stroke her nipple; to hold her, to hold your cunt over her face; to kiss her, to kiss her clit deep into your mouth; to run your hands through her hair, to run your tongue through the folds of her cunt.
And you both writhe in this wanting of each other, and the not being able to have of each other. She sits there, just across the table, and you can hold her hand, stroke her face, kiss her, run your hands through her hair, but you can’t take her home with you, make love to her, fuck her for hours. You just sit there and touch her fingers across the table, thrill at the touch of her skin and fantasise about what you will do to her.
And you realise how much you had missed her, how much you missed loving her. How much you had missed having her in your life, there to talk to, there to phone, there to have breakfast with, there to be your person, the only person in your day who lives for you. And you want to convey to her how much you think about her how like once every ten minutes you think about her, but how actually its like ten times in every minute.
And I wonder whether she misses me as much. Does she find time during her day to have her thoughts intermittently interrupted by thoughts of me? Does she find that I intrude into the weirdest situations; as though somewhere in her mind I lie percolating, and every once in a while a bubble of me rises and pops the surface of her mind?
I’ll be thinking of my birthday, how I’ll be at the gallery opening and how afterwards you’ll be taking me to supper, where we go and what we’ll have to eat, how we’ll go home and make love afterwards. And then I remember that you won’t be there, how you can’t come out.
I’ll be visiting friends, drinking wine, smoking hash, and I’ll imagine getting high with you, lying side to side and discussing our thoughts, having a bath together and then being naked in the lounge in the semi-darkness, burning incense, talking about Virginia Woolf, being lesbian in South Africa, our plans for Christmas, how you were Vita Sackville-West to my Virginia Woolf, our mothers, how we’d build a house together and how we’d decorate it, the astrology behind our relationship with our mothers. We would drift in and out of talk, chocolate and sex. And then I’d realise you’re not with me anymore.
I’ll be at home washing the dishes, and I’ll think of hearing your keys rattle against the door as you let yourself in, how you’ll come up behind me and hug me against you, that feeling of rightness and safety and all the shit having stopped when you hold me. How I then turn around and shiver as my chest makes contact with yours for the first time and you kiss me, ask me about my day. And then I’ll start from my reverie and you’re not here, you’re there, not with me.
I’ll be lying at home, watching tv, and eating supper, and I’ll have to sms you and ask you what you’re having for supper, how your day was, how you’re feeling. And if you’re not feeling well how it kills me. How powerless I feel when the one I love is hurting and ill and I can’t be there to hold you, to make you feel better. How frustrating it is to have sms conversations when I’m limited to a certain amount of letters, a certain amount of smss. All I want to do is convey how much I miss you, love you, how often I think of you. Without the body language of love, the eight typed letters of ‘I love you’ lose their authenticity. Language begins to fail and you’re left with the inane, superficial, stacatto ping pong of conversation via cellphone