Why is the measure of love loss?
These words from Jeanette Winterson ring like bells time and time again, and it is by some grave misfortune that they have never yet rung false.
I miss you even before you're gone; in the days before the word "goodbye" has had the chance to sully our tongues, in the hours before we separate our final load of clean laundry, and in the minutes before we wolf down our last sandwich at The Stand. Merely thinking of our departure-- though of course it sordidly haunts the entrails of my mind-- is blasphemy to my naive heart.
Those final, lingering seconds before we force ourselves apart like stubborn children severing two stuck magnets are invariably the worst. My mouth somehow forms the words that repel you, but my eyes beg you to melt into me forever.
When I'm away from you, I am losing. When you leave me, as you must, I will have lost.
It is I for whom the bell tolls, each dull vibration a carefully measured length of yarn or a brick of pyrite or a plot in the land we waste away in until there is nothing left but the pain of our unadulterated memories.
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