A note

If I were writing a note to E. today -- which I am not, because I have to not do that -- it would say:

Dear E.,

I am longing for you today, for a conversation with you, to know how you are doing, for a taste of the sweet nectar that you provide (and not the kind you're thinking about either).  That nectar of feeling connected, of being understood, of being wanted. I don't know why today. I don't know why any day. I keep thinking I'll stop looking for the e-mail, stop hoping for the call. But every day, the longing is still there. I don't know if it's about you or about me ... all I know is it's too real and that as we've said a million times, I've only added to the problem that I set out to fix. I feel sick and lost and unable to pull myself together. I know you don't feel the same. You are most likely glad to be rid of me. I doubt that you've given up your Internet addiction. I'm guessing that you are chatting every day. I hope not as much as me, or not as much as before. But I know from personal experience how hard it is to break free. I haven't broken free either. The only problem is, I left part of my heart with you.  You asked me not to give it, but then took it, and now I can't get it back. I think I'd rather hate you than this. But I don't ... and that leaves me here ... in pergatory. I should have known better. But I didn't. That's the story of life, right?