Previously published on my Tumblr, which no one ever saw…

Another morning waking alone, the only warmth coming from my naked body wrapped in an indifferent linen embrace. After so long without touch this act of exhibitionism is all that remains of a life desired and unfulfilled.

They say we don’t need anyone to ‘complete us,’ but what they really mean is to be happy with who we are. Blanket statements like this have always troubled me; you see, I do need someone to complete me. I was born as half of a whole and I’ve been looking my entire life for the other. I am a complete person, happy with my own sum, but I was not meant to be alone.

Yet I am very good at it. I am actually good at anything I do with enough practice, solitude included, but solitude to me seems more of a choice. Being alone is often an undesired result and I have become far too familiar with the condition.

Be it solitude or loneliness, touch is absent. The marrieds joke that they have too much touch and the singles can’t get enough of it. Seven years without touch (save that wonderful blip last autumn, which I’m not sure really even happened) is like holding one’s breath when touch is as necessary as oxygen.

So I lay in bed as if it were an invitation to an unknown entity who might somehow find her way to me through dreams, because dreams are currently the only medium through which I can be found.


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