39. Missing

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

I feel better, at last. I feel at peace. My body temperature is normal, and the cough is only mild. The antibiotics make me a little dizzy, yes, but that’s a small price to pay for health, isn’t it? I feel anxious, stalled. So much to do and I don’t want to do any of it, haha.

I missed you. I missed the man who smiles at me in my dreams, the one whose wrinkles around the eyes go soft and mellow when he looks at me. I miss the man who lies with me in the dark, his nose to mine, whispering with me. Something. Nothing.

I miss your hands. Your capable, broad, possessive hands that lay on my hip as you stare into my eyes. The simple things. “How was your day? Did you miss me?” I miss the man who is not afraid to stand behind his woman, his feelings. Who whispers “I love you” back to me in the dark, without me starving for it, without holding it as a weapon of depravity against me.

I miss a man I never met. A man I do not know exists. I miss you.

I miss your smell. Musk, heavy, man. Sandalwood and London rain. I miss your skin, warm, flexible. I miss your hair. The smell of it, the feel. The salted glint of it reflected in the bedroom’s dim light.

Do you miss me?

Say by some miracle you find these letters. Say you will read them. Say you will fall for me the way I am a goner for you. We cannot meet yet, for my journey is just beginning. So will you wait? Will you keep reading? Will it all bore you, same ‘ol same ‘ol? The pain, sickness, kids, money, and business trouble. Life is rarely an original script.

I miss you amongst all the noise. The kids, the dishes, the fever, the never-ending list of things to do. You are my quiet. My home. My sacred space. But I am sure I am not the same for you. You curated your life, unlike mine, to peace and quiet, a dim, cool room where you can leave the noise behind. Do you feel my absence at all, or am I just an afterthought?

I miss the man who laughs. Loud, freely. Maybe this is where you need me, to shake that serious face of yours, shake your poised poker face just a fraction, so that you keep laughing. You have a lovely laugh. Your laugh is my personal prize, and I consider eliciting it from you one of my highest achievements.

I miss the man who looks at me with hunger. I never had that. Not once. I felt it, a plenty, hunger so intense that your eyes alone can devour the man you want. But never, not once, had anyone looked at me with that intense look. I miss the man who sits in company with me, gazing at me across a table, or perhaps the room, and the hunger in his eyes is undeniable. Unashamed. I miss the tremor, the total disorientation, that comes from meeting that gaze as the recipient of that desire.

Desired. I miss being desired. Maybe that is the thing I miss the most. Last, I felt beautiful, wanted, desired, when I was 19. More than 20 years ago, you see? I do not even know if I will recognize the feeling.

I miss the man who looks at me directly, not lowering his gaze when I advance. He is there, solid, exists, whether I am calm or angry. He does not change. Oh, what a marvel that would be. Does this exist? I could almost believe you.

I miss a man who knows how to play. Narde, Mahjong, maybe a little checkers. I miss the man who does not know how to lose, haha. Oh, you are not a sore loser, not at all. You won’t be nasty or unkind. Just quiet, alert, and then obsessed with learning every possible way to never fail that game again. It makes me laugh. I do not mind losing, but you will earn it. I just enjoy playing with you.

I miss the man who closes his eyes and smells the food I cooked, just before he takes one small sample. You do not rush to devour even when you are hungry. It’s funny, really, how different your food appetite is from your sexual one. With food, you’re slow, gentle, tasting. With the more carnal tastes, you jump all in and as deep as possible.

I miss the man who is more silent than he speaks, and still I feel like every breath of his speaks volumes. I miss all the things I don’t yet know about you. I miss the way you move — lithe and graceful, without even trying. You have this… presence, this cohesiveness of body, so many people lack. You know exactly where you are in space in every moment, exactly where each part of you resides.

I miss your textures. The stubble on your face, the smoothness of your hair. The springiness of the salted curls on your chest. The crisp shirts that smell of you, the smooth fabric of your pants. The heavy coat that always smells like rain. I miss it all.

I miss your smile most of all. Not the cynical half a crescent you wear all day, that half-amused, half-bored London signature that shows your “big city” face. I miss your other smiles. I miss the soft one that you give me just before you kiss me. The naughty one you share with me when you see me about to go all Ox on an unsuspecting polite member of society. The secret smile you give me when I truly amuse you late at night, and you allow yourself to truly shed the guard.

I miss the ways you stand. All of them. That stance you have with your arms folded over your chest when you think. The one you wear when you want to portray boredom, but really are quite alert — leaning on the wall with your hands in your pants’ pockets. When you touch your chin, just for a moment, when you think. I miss that.

I miss arguing with you. Calm and collected as you are, I miss the jump I feel in my heart when I finally get you to show your true emotions. When you are angry. Your voice goes quiet in a dangerous way, your eyes burn bright. I used to be afraid of it, you know, with my past. But now it just excites me. Knowing I can move you from your poised persona.

I miss our conversations. On literature, on politics, on history. I miss the ability to express myself without the need to defend my opinion, even when it is radically different from anything you or anyone else thinks. I miss the way you protect me when I argue with others. When men try to belittle me when they run out of arguments. You lean forward for a moment. You say nothing, just look at them with that freezing stare of yours, and then sit back again, watching them choke on their own words.

I miss being needed. Ridiculous, you’ll say, I know. I am needed all the time. My kids, my birds, even the house. But you are different. You do not need me to do it for you. I miss being needed to just be. Exist. I miss being important in someone’s world, your world, for the simple reason that I am me.

I miss your ability to tolerate my chaos, or even flourish in it. The way I bear hug your stunned family, while you stand and smirk with mischief in your eyes. The way you smile when I surprise you at work with a tray of cupcakes for your employees, and they all stare at you, not quite sure how to digest me, but you just smile at me. As if I woke you from a boring day.

I miss the way you jump on board on my crusades, instead of trying to make me “sensible”. Deciding to donate 10k pairs of socks to a homeless shelter on New Year’s Eve is met with a nod and a logistics puzzle you solve in 10 minutes. No lectures, no belittling. Could that even be? I miss that, my partner in crime, my best friend and conspirator.

I miss how your shoulders fall back, how you sink deeper into the chair when you see me go ballistic over something silly you did that affects your well-being. Missing a meal, taking a second shift, deciding to walk through the rain instead of taking a cab. Sometimes, I swear, I think you do this on purpose, just to see me go all angry and go at you with that defensiveness.

I miss the way you forget, like everyone else does, that you need protection too. And I have the privilege of reminding you. You do not truly need it to function, but I know you like it when I whisper to you, “I know you are anxious, but you should not be. You got this.”

I miss how lost you feel when I am sick. It’s funny, really. I am a woman, see, a mother of 4. I have been through so much that sickness and physical difficulty are as common to me as breathing. But you, strong, proud, and utterly unbreakable, my sickness always catches you off guard. You go all soft, protective, and I miss the knowledge that there is a man who truly dreads me dying in this world.

I miss the way you must touch. You cannot let a moment go by without your hand brushing mine, your hand leaning on the small of my back, your forehead finding mine. I am a tactile person too, and that part I miss terribly.

I miss you. 
The way an empty space is missing you. 
I love you,
Always yours,
Oxy. 
April 18, 2026

Help me find him: Have you seen this man?