(There are a couple private jokes as I wrote this with a certain someone in mind – I hope they don’t detract. I’d appreciate your constructive criticism. Thanks for reading!)
I try so hard not to think about you. But there is still such a deep ache, this yearning I can’t get rid of.
Fantasy consumes me throughout the day – when I make coffee, I’m making coffee for you. I pick an outfit because I hope the colors and fabrics will please you. The steering wheel becomes your hips. I think of a joke to tell you only to hear the much wittier reply you would have. I watch a pretty sunset and your elegant hand is in mine. My pillow becomes your shoulder. I feel myself smile when I think of you. It’s just so awful, this terrible, terrible longing.
But I like to imagine being alone with you, walking into a hotel room. Rushing into a hotel room, rather – the mad anticipation making us barely able to get the key card into the reader, how do doorknobs work?