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I'm sleepless in Beirut.

I succumb to the miss. I succumb to the wait. I succumb to the weight of his absence, a strange fruit to replace a lightness so feather-light it was barely there.

I thought attachment needed a leash, dependence needed a habit, sequence needed a prerequisite.

But he just had to disappear for the magic to happen.

So here I am sitting like a white innocent rabbit in a top hat, waiting for the world to pause, for his sign, a wink, whatever, waiting for his hand to reach for me, waiting to be part of the show.

But the perspective of the white rabbit looking upwards is narrowly defined by the circular lining, his claustrophobia carefully contained in a cylinder and his anticipation loudly churning his insides to quivering bits.

The audience is at his whim, not mine, and the best I can do in this act is be as discrete in my waiting as possible, as quiet in my want, as shallow in my desire, my ears tucked in as hard as he is far away from me.

All this, and the curtains have yet to be parted.

Dear Departed, come back.

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