Love.

Tomorrow will be a year since a call from my father in law with news of my wife’s death.

I can only describe my love, as in the feeling inside me, as a great, but unwanted resource.

There is enough to go round, but no one wants it.

The date of the anniversary is an irrelevance. What matters to me is the season, and the feeling that nothing has changed. In a sense nothing has changed since before she died, the illness, and the mania that went before it, the dysfunction of our cohabitation, and the completeness of our love.

I am told it isn’t helpful to overshare, but I need to. I need to find someone who wants to engage, who wants to be loved, but understands the limits of my physical offering. Someone who can express their own need. It is, at the root of it, a business arrangement. Without a spoken contract, negotiation, there lies only frustration and heartache.

Please don’t message tomorrow, but think of me throughout this season of fruit gathering.

I will write again when the last apples, the ones that ripen on cooler days, and take a little longer to turn to mush, have been brought in.

Until then all will be frantic, and desperate, and I will still be driven to distraction by the pointless pings of dating apps, but if anyone needs, or wants my love, please let me know at any time, and I’ll leave all this in a heartbeat.

Contact

S.