Ashes and dust

Last night I was puttering in my inner sanctum at home (I just hate calling it an office), a task that was long overdue.  Once I finally made it to my desk, which still hasn't been fully excavated, I noticed that the three pictures I have of A on a picture shelf there had grown dusty.  I blew on them a little, but it was inadequate to the task, so I took a tissue to them.

On the one hand, I live in the desert.  Deserts are dusty, and so are the homes in them.  Reasonably, I shouldn't read into it any more than that. 

Nonetheless, it was symbolic, and poignantly so.  I was struck by the simple reality of dust on my love.  His face, a photo only, and yet him even so.  There is dust on my love.  While I do believe we've communicated since he died, in a fashion, and while I do believe our love is ongoing and strong, and while I do what little I can on my end to keep him current, the fact is that there has been no day-to-day interaction like we were used to having for 3 years, 10 months, and 5 days now.  I say it that way because every time I say "almost 4 years" I wince a little.  Next Tuesday is the 5th...no, wait, 6th (geez) anniversary of our first "meeting" on the internet.  And I have been carrying on by myself for 2/3 of that.

I'd like to state for the record that that sucks mightily.  And I only say that because I lack the words to express how truly and unabatedly shitty that bit of my reality is.

Mostly, now, when I think of him, or see his picture, I just think, "I love you, Sweetie.  I hope you're having a splendid time where you are.  I miss you a lot."  Because there's not much else to say.  If he's interested in my goings on, I'm sure he can tune in, and the times when I choose to tell him are more for me than they are for him.  He is with me, but he isn't.  The love is there, but the lover is completely out of reach.  And I feel it.  I feel that distance every day.

There is dust on my love, and every passing year adds another layer of it.

There is dust on my love, and I never wanted that to happen.  Never.

There is dust on my love.