I originally posted this blog April 2019. But, it merits a repost. The topic is sexual bereavement and it is very real and it need to be discussed more candidly and more often.
As widowed people we do not often discuss how our sex lives die with them. But, the truth is that this is an enormous secondary loss.
Sexual bereavement is a thing. It is very real and it profoundly affects us as we live on without the one we love. Daily, we miss the intimacy of being a couple. And, nothing, not one thing can replace this. The daily nuances that exist between two lovers. Your unspoken language. The secret words you whispered to one another. The tone he reserved for just you. The dialect of love.
As surviving spouses we miss the stolen glances. The way his adoring eyes watched me prepare a meal. The winks he sent me across the room during a dinner party. Tenderly placing my hand on his leg as he drove us some place. Walking side by side and casually reaching for his familiar hand; and, then interlocking my fingers with the man I love. Their hands. Their kiss. That place on the small of my back that only he knew. The way he gently brushed the hair out of my eyes before his lips met mine. The way I fell into his chest as he pulled me to him. All of this. Every last thing. This is the stuff we ache for. This is the stuff that I quietly grieve.
I miss your hands on me.
I miss your touch against my skin.
I desperately miss having you beside me on an ordinary Sunday night.
I wish I could turn my head and see you here in front of me.
I want my dinner companion back.
I miss him.
Eating alone while I talk to my dead lover is killing my appetite.
It is not food I crave, it is your physical presence that I hunger for.
I long to taste your kiss.
I want to run my fingers across your shoulders as I set your plate down.
I want to drink up your smile as I swallow my wine.
As I sit here alone,
I close my eyes,
And, I feel you come up behind me and wrap your arms tightly around me – like you always did.
I remember how you’d slowly turn me around to face you.
We’d stop and briefly look at one another.
If I could go back,
I’d stay there locked in that moment.
I remember feeling something magical happening inside those fleeting seconds when we looked into each other’s Souls.
We stood still, but within this space we held for each other, we travelled someplace else.
A place without a name.
A place that is gently suspended outside of time and space.
Maybe this is the place where you exist now – I don’t know.
Nowadays, I slip far into the depths of my heart space remembering how this type of intimacy felt.
To say I miss this connection to another human being is an understatement.
I’m starving for you.
And, tonight, I long for you to take my hand and lead me away from the sink full of dirty dishes because they can wait, but you can not.
Tonight, I sit here hopelessly wanting my memories of you to come back to life.
I am remembering how you would take me and push me up against the counter as you leaned in to kiss me.
I want to make love to you – long into the night.
I want to lay contently in your arms with my hair a mess.
I need to lose myself in you again and again as the moonlight shines through the blinds and lights up our eyes.
But, none of this will happen tonight; or any other night because you died.
So again, like always, I fight your deadness because I wish to have you here in the room with me.
Your empty chair bores me and taunts me.
It’s not enough to survive on memories alone.
They can not feed the hunger in my Soul.
Mike, the dishes can wait, but I can not.
All my love,