Nude by David Hockney (1957)

Midnight once again, and it always ends with me wiping away my tears. I am one day closer to death, but one day closer to finding you. I don’t know which I’m more terrified of facing. 24 years. 8, 760 days of excruciating longing, and as each day turns into night I can’t help but wonder. Where are you? What are you doing at this exact moment? The moon reminds me that you’re out there, looking up at it and asking the exact same questions about me. No matter the distance, city, state, or continent, the moon is there for us. It always will be. Now is what matters. In my bed, I’m alone. My clothes are scattered on the floor, wishing yours could be too so that you could join me in what will soon be our bed. My body aches, longing for the touch that could fix every crack in my heart. Now, I am alone. The silence in my apartment chimes in to remind me, “You’re used to it.” Reflecting on past loves, or the lack thereof, only induces more tears. Jared, who lied to me for years. Kevin, the insensitive, self-obsessed alcoholic. And Evan. God, he couldn’t love me even if he tried. The child in me can still envision the “true love” that all of my friends seem to speak of. 1, 2, 3 year anniversaries whiz by, but each midnight is another midnight spent alone. A shiver runs through my body, and I feel the emptiness of my bed as I try effortlessly to find another heat source. The pillows provide comfort, but nothing would be as satisfying as a chest to lean my head on and an arm around me. Sunday mornings, sleeping in until noon enveloped in my partner’s arms, gently wakened by the birds and wishing that the day would never begin. The blankets are spacious and unfulfilling. I jerk up and haul them at the floor in a fit of rage, hoping that he will suddenly appear, and place them back around me. Not talking, not questioning, just understanding. Physical nudity does not phase me. These are just bodies. We all have them in varying shapes and sizes, each unique to ourselves. Physical nudity is our own. Emotional nudity exists together. Stripping yourself doing to the core of who you are, sharing it and giving someone else the power to say, “This is not enough for me,” is the most frightening thought that could ever cross a mind. Bare. Stripped bare beneath all the layers, there is so much of me that I have to show you…if we could only meet already. What will you be like? And how long will it be before we finally meet one another? I close my eyes in an attempt to finally sleep, but am left pondering your name, your face, and personality. Moments before success, one final thought pops into my head. Loving you is going to be the most fascinating and heart-breaking thing for me.