When did I last curl up in her lap? It’s been so long, I cannot recall. Despite numbered boxcars on the calendar and the disinterested faces of clocks, a concrete memory eludes me. Time, location, and date, they’re merely three dimensions after all.
That number, it could be a trinity – secure, owned, loved.
Instead, it feels abstract.
As a probability, It should be some comfort to expect these feelings again “someday.” I should be cheered by the likelihood of laying my head on her thigh, the gentle yet possessive finger hooked through my collar. Her lips inches from my ear reminding me what I already know: “You are owned. You are loved. You are mine.”
Three phrases I have heard, all of them as sincere, concrete, and real as the walls around me. By that logic, these dimensions I can measure, pace, curse, and strike – they should be some comfort.
They are not, tonight anyway.