75. A Lull to Sleep

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

I can’t sleep. It’s 23:00, and I have been in bed since 21:00. Restless. I see you. Your eyes light up when you see me, or maybe, when you see the inhibited joy and light in mine when you’d walk through the door. I stopped pretending I wasn’t waiting for you quite a while ago.

You’re late.

The kids are in bed. They missed you. How was your day?

You’d shed your bag, your coat, and somehow our eyes would not leave each other, even when you move. Starved for your sight. You’d cross the hall straight into the kitchen, to me, and touch me. A hand on my waist, on my shoulder, maybe just leaning on the counter next to me, so very close.

Your voice is home. Your smell is safety. Your eyes are an endless river of life and love. Oxygen. I take a deep breath of you. Your smell fills my lungs, intoxicating. Home.

I miss you.

I am lying here in the dark, clutching a pillow and staring at the dark — on the empty spot where you should be. My heart clenched by the brutal grasp of loneliness.

I miss you so.

I can almost see you. You are so close, and yet unreachable. So vivid and yet elusive.

Where are you?

Why are you not in my arms? What possibly could be out there that keeps you from crushing this agony of isolation in me? I can take it all, all of it, the stress, the work, the never-ending list of things I fail at daily. The never-ending quest to do my best when it seems that my best is meaningless.

But this?

This loneliness? Your absence? That is what kills me slowly. Rotting my bones, muscles and heart.

The tears are slow, silent and heavy. I’m waiting, my beloved. I’m waiting. In pain, alone, still fighting, still raising our kids — and I am waiting.

Waiting is not a passive pastime; it is not “finding what you do in the meantime”. Waiting is pure agony. Waiting is the constant phantom pain of this void.

Please do not take too long.

Please.

Please fight your way to me. I need you.

And I do miss you so.

Good night, beloved. 
Yours in agony as in joy. 
Oxy.
May 30, 2026

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