Woke up exhausted, the summer sun piercing trough my thin curtains in the early morning. Sunday. Another day in the excruciating anxiety-packed life of The Writer. Fun. Fun. Fun.

I can’t complain about loneliness or these creeping feelings of abandonment. They all left me, yes. Though in hindsight, most of them could have been more than fugitive flings, but I was closed up. Was. Am.

I will reach for her, or the idea of her, in the middle of the night. My hand will meet nothing but the cold empty space of her side of the bed. There’s no her, and the concept of that (im)possible person vanishes with every fleeting thought of “a someone.”