I resent retrogression. I miss P...he is gone, always, working, always. I wish for other things than this. I picture scenarios in my mind, dramatic and in the colors of a film noir. It is always prune colored, because we live in Pigalle and the sky is never just dark, it is red and half illuminated from below like a hell or a vegas style snow globe. And the movie goes like this; you hurt me, and I must say 'fin'. I picture this because at my loneliest I wonder what violence would taste like, even during this gentle, lovely spring. Because I sense in you a potentiality. Even when I love you most I sense it. But we stay horribly in character and even in fantasy I know you would never apologize because it would mean to say something as inane as an I need you. I wouldn't ask for that, and in the same stream, if you can begin to understand, I wouldn't hope for it either. He has always been very up front with his immovable nature, and in turn, I have always been very up front with things I can and cannot accept. That I can. Other things, I cannot.

Even mature sorts of love are victim to the complexities of having companionable love, love in friendship, love unconditional. I can attribute this post to the malaise of being alone with no imminent hope of a give. The melancholy of loving and having nothing to give love to. No resentment, just solemnity. Tired and feeling shaky still after recent events. You cannot go from 4 months pregnant to non-pregnant in the span of an hour and expect it to be easy. I still remember the trip to Tuileries where suddenly blood ran down my legs in vivid streams, blood everywhere, and I held the post and my stomach and waited for a taxi to take pity on me. I still remember waking up to leaking breasts.

I'm still very sad. Melancholy, again. And in the days since, alone. My body is trying to forget but it's holding on for dear life. It feels furious. P has so much to hold up, for us to even exist, it's not fair. He is tired, feeling imprisoned. It's not as if he revels in being gone. God knows he needs a chance to just simply breathe. I can confront the reality that sometimes, a lover is just one more thing to satisfy among a long to do list. That sometimes love has to work from satellite locations. But intentions and feelings only get us so far in this world, and we're left with the personal reality. The reality, for me, is one of loneliness.

And yet life is good, it's only getting better, and I think the present state is one of mourning and not representative of the to-be. But maybe it's about time I mourned things. Maybe melancholy, too, needs its season.