This Friday

Okay. You wrote me today asking about my match.com profile as if I am a failure or something. And I have told Liz so that it might make its way back to you about who I have met there and lo and behold you write me, ostensinsibly because you found it on BBC’s blog…. It was and has been and will be for some time you. I have met interesting and beautiful people. I am not so bad. But no one has ever understood me, for better or worse, in the way in which you do. I know you are so thoroughly gone. I know that you are never to be mine again. I have not figured how to give it up yet. I miss shaved ice. I miss that twangy voice. I miss the sex we had. I miss your lithe belly. I miss YOUR frends. I shouldn’t be where I am now. Tomorrow I have to wake up to record the wife of the dream go to the seat of power. I have to follow a dead woman as she progresses toward the grave. I will always love you. I wish you would be mine. I wish you would ask me to be yours. I wish we could be beyond all of this. I wish I could, and you could, make all of us happy. You are so lovely, and have always been so.