Sitting at the opera Thursday night, listening to Mario sing E lucevan le stelle (The stars were shining) in the third act - thinking back to a memory of the sensations of a moment spent with Tosca, an intensely private internal reverie that you feel touched to be included in. And then that universal truth of any human knowing that their life will end very shortly: E non ho amato mai tanto la vita - I never before loved life so much.
Puccini rocks the planet.
I miss the heck out of you. I wish that it was different, but my heart still chooses you over all others in spite of everything my head says. Perhaps missing isn't the right way to describe it, more of a disappointment that I can no longer share my days with someone who understands the things I say the way that I know you will.
Where are you? - so many dull faces out there, lacking ideas, dreams, humour, and intelligence. I know that I am exceptional, and yet no one else seems to notice this at all.
and they aren't you.
So what shall I do when you are still the one I choose? Try to ignore it, bring you home, throw myself into my work, get ten cats, laugh at the universe?
We shall have to wait and see...
I can feel you missing me every day, missing the warmth of my smile and the way that my laugh opens up your heart and lets in all the hope in the world.
What are you doing over there, so far away from me?
La vita, la vita, la vita. Stretched out on the sofa, wrapping my curls around your fingers, soft hair, telling you a story while Bach plays quietly in the background, the light casting shadows from the crane tree and my hands as they gesture every emotion and reach up to gently stroke your cheek. And you know that you are home.
E non ho amato mai tanto la vita.
Only for you, only you.