"Every time you're leaving I don't know what to say"

The world is cold flutter-trembling like a dance under the sheets, but this is just a storm. A rounded mass of white I watch in the weather reports, curling into town like an invisible wandering hand. Curious like all of us wondering how things feel and taste. 

I have been diagnosed, over the phone because I was a little too smart for my own good and did my own soul-searching mathematics. I figured it out and asked my Doctor if he has too, and yes, he has but he was waiting until I had some more sleep to break the news. Well, I know now and I don't know how to react. There is no reaction, because it has been there anyway, like a nameless black shape, but still this does something to me. It changes me, how I see myself. Maybe it shouldn't, maybe it should, but I am here in this pink old skinned soul and dealing with it. There is no formula of how one is supposed to respond to illness, if there was it would be a lot easier. All I know is, I'm here, I'm sick, I'm dealing with it and going to get better, but now I'm horribly shocked and sad about it.  There is something everyone says about boot straps, but the only people I have seen say that are the onlookers.

Now onto the storm cloud hole punched day. I'm getting my haircut short short and am nervous but excited, but nervous about it. I go back and back and forth. I wish for Ron, he has already worked sixty hours this week and I miss his sweet face and words horribly. I decorated the apartment with little vintage hearts for Valentine's but without my valentine it's pretty but worthless, like so many empty bottles.