Withdrawals.

The week was everything I needed out of a G visit. We fell flawlessly back into our routine, with our banter and our jokes and a few bitter fights to the death sprinkled in between (to keep the passion alive).

And in that short span of his visit, my apartment became this cocoon of relationship. From flawlessly clean and smelling like fresh linen (at least according to Bath and Body Works), it morphed into a wrinkled nest of half eaten baked goods, opened bottles of wine, twisted sheets, and a hale storm of The Office DVDs. Seriously slacking from any semblance of my usual regimented schedule, I spent seven days in my chonees and G's old dress shirt laughing and talking and kissing and touching and being perfectly. and utterly. happy.

But my stay-cation is up. G flew back to Germany and I am pulling myself together. And Im doing pretty well. I claw my way out of bed and to the gym at 6 a.m.. I get dressed and put on heels and click clack my way to work on time. I do my job and smile and try to be there for others in their time of need. And I hang out with friends. And I continue to tease Simon about being fat. And I try not to think about how fucking tragic it is that my apartment is flawlessly clean and smells like fresh linen.

Because honestly, as hard as I am tugging at those old proverbial boot straps, my breath still catches in my throat at least four million times a day. I miss everything about having him here. I miss living in our little rats nest world. I miss running my fingernails through his beard. I miss the smell of him next to me when I sleep. And most of all, at the end of the day, I miss being able to give myself up and lean on someone who wont let me fall.