Frustration. Without willful consent, this word acquired new meaning for me. Before being left by him, it was a conscious irritation. Post being left by him; it became a physical pull that haunted my mind and chased my daily rituals.
    With a thousand miles and almost a hundred days separating us, I am forced to push away at the penetrating thoughts of him that hit me at the most bizarre times. Thoughts that detract from usual logic, and invade my mind like a dark storm clawing at a sky. And then, in a great gust of wind, I am wrapped up in our memories, comforted by the isolation of this familiar world. And then, as quick as the wind started, it disperses leaving me ten minutes lost of class, that I should have been taking notes on, and with a pink blush staining my cheeks. Someone watching me would think that the professors lecture on the social issue of escalating gas prices was somehow strangely erotic to me.
    As the busy schedule of college holds my attention for the best part of the day, activities begin to die along with the sun. And I am left sitting in my bed alone, thinking of the nights that I spent in comfort with this distant companion. And that's when it hits me. The frustration. The physical pull of my emotions and body and logic all at once. All swept together in a torrent of bush raping wind that releases all previous thoughts of exhaustion and care for a good nights sleep.
    Talking to him only aids the black pull of loneliness that squeezes my stomach and bites at my heart. And the frustration of distance and time overwhelms me in a tidal wave of emotion until I have to hear his voice to reassure me that he still cares. And then, like a ritual, he begins to calm me in an unwinding motion that leaves me lethargically resting in my pink scratchy sheets. I can only imagine his thoughts as my name pops up on his caller I.D. every time I call late. I imagine it is accompanied by a deep breath and some sort of emotional shield, ready to take my aggressive words and my too quick for my own good tongue. The same tongue that I have always used with him, the same tongue that he has learned to love.
    And so every night he takes it. As I try to spread my frustration like a contagious epidemic, until when I hang up, I can feel him in some sort of pain too. It is sadistic, it is unjust, yet somehow, I feel closer to him. Knowing that he will also toss and turn in his bed taken by the same frustration of distance and time.
    As much as I hate it, frustration is the rein that structures my day and guides my feet. Without it, the euphoric high of pleasure and pain would be dampened in my lack of spirit, in my lack of care, in my lack of longing. As long as Brian is still thousands of miles and hundreds of days away, frustration is my newly discovered companion, and my ever watchful best friend.
To my love, from your love,
Nonie