"deeply i go down into myself. my god is dark and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence." -rainer maria rilke


plugged in.

he left mid-morning on valentine's day, after two intense nights of copulating, conversing...and god damnit... cuddling. 

half a year i waited for this.  half a year of frustration.  of not knowing if whatever the fuck it was that was going on would ever lead to the consummation that cock and my pussy.

i hadn't realized that "whatever the fuck it was that was going on" was going to end up the way it has.  with his phone charger still plugged into the wall in my kitchen.

he called me in the afternoon the day he left asking if he had left it.  i had been in bed all day.  crying.  rubbing off.  sleeping.  dreaming.  he asked if it was there and i deleriously said i didn't know.  silence.  "can you get up and check for me?"

god his voice is sexy...

"uh huh.  hang on....yeah, it's here...it's plugged into the kitchen wall."


this morning, i woke up for work and came walking out of my room and saw the charger plugged into the wall still.  it's been there since sunday night.  i stood there staring at it.  i don't know how long i was staring.  my heart started racing.  i shook it off and turned right, into the bathroom.  into the routine.  shower.  get dressed.  gotta be out the door by 7:40 a.m. at the latest.  singing along to tapes in the car.  get to work on time.

but as i was leaving...the charger caught my eye again as i was passing it.  i stopped.  staring at it again.  this time i reached out and touched it for a moment.  still staring.  his phone was here.   

he was here.

he was here and now he's gone and his charger is still plugged into my wall. 

my apartment is haunted by the coupling we had.  i can still smell him in my bed.  and that charger is a symbol of what i experienced.  of what i've experienced all along.  the charger goes to the phone.  the phone that he uses to stay connected to me, somehow.  i can't seem to bring myself to remove it.

i don't know if or when i ever will.

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"in the slaughterhouse of love, they kill only the best, none of the weak or deformed. don't run away from this dying. whoever's not killed for love is dead meat." - rumi