Missing 

I am missing. Or, more accurately, there’s somebody I am missing. I think if he were here he would be a cause of some irritation. A month after we last met he still messages me every single day and I like the fact that possessive jealousy has melted away and been replaced by a playful flirtiness. He seems to have realised that being apart requires a fluidity and trust that was not exercised in the earliest days of our friendship. 

It’s not like me. The Asperger Path is famously uncluttered. It’s narrow but so easy to navigate.  I do not regret the passing of things or people. I’m not fatalistic my logic is too robust for that. Missing is something other people do. I have often pointed out that if you miss someone so much surely you should just see them or accept that you cannot. I am a rolling stone and yet moss is greening the damp corners of my arid soul.

 
It’s all theoretical. He lives with his mum and they run a café together. There’s no room at the inn for this Mary. I am pining for something that never was and never will be. Maybe my life has become so tidy and well organised I need a little dirty laundry on the floor. I have created so much emotional space that this man can echo in the pristine chambers of my heart. He tells me that he misses me too and so this thing, whatever it is, is reciprocated. I am missed and I like it. 
I am missing. Missing presumed alive in Cambodia. 

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