After all these hard days, I’m pretty sure one day it’ll be over, I’ll get to run into your broad arms. You’ll hold me; you’ll smell good. None of this will matter.
I know I’m supposed to stop believing that. At my core, it’s a feeling I can’t shake.
You are so steady, so consistent; you tip toed out of my life so politely like the mornings you’d quietly grab your gym clothes in the dark to get dressed in the hall as I slept for another hour. I expect you to come back home, return to bed, shower fresh with a kiss. First, I’d feel your beard brush against me, still a little damp. At your insistence, I’d pry my eyes open, welcomed to the day by the vision of your cute face, basked in some daylight. You’d fill my field of vision before my worries could load. I felt glamorous.
This morning, I waited, but my cheek went untouched. By the time it was time to pry my eyes open, cheek-touched or not, I knew I didn’t want my eyes to use their open state to see, to see what wasn’t there. What isn’t there.
I wake up. It feels like living in a hotel room. “I want to go home,” I think. Home to the place where I never have to worry.
I go to sleep, always dreaming. And I wake up, in the place where I went to sleep, always dreaming. Still alone. Unmoved, but I feel as far from you as ever.