CALL ME, WHEN YOU GET HOME

I AM MISSING YOU PREMATURELY.

No one has told me what to do about this. Laying in my bed, a few hours ago, I drummed up the feeling with my head under the duvet, breath fanning hot across my own face once it ricocheted off the linen. There is nothing to do about it. You are a call away, I ate breakfast with you. This afternoon, we walked to the basketball courts where you skinned your knee on the blacktop and I watched you, sitting on that steaming concrete, even though I do hate basketball and I wanted to curl up under my duvet and imagine scenarios that would bring me to tears instead. You are right there. I am imagining things; I am imagining a life where I have to choose between forgetting you or being angry. There are no words for this– I am not pressing on a bruise, there is no bruise. I am not grieving, there is still a dirty plate you left on my nightstand. All I am doing is imagining how much I will relish in that ache when I lose you, some way or another, one day. For now, I am missing you anyway. Call me later tonight. Miss you. I would like to do something with you, then something again tomorrow. I’m thinking we could let you leave more dirty plates on my nightstand.