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Dis
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I should be working, but as usual I've a million things to say to you.
I miss you, dear heart. I should know better than to call you when I'm feeling discouraged or impatient, because I say things I regret.
I apologize. I'm a hothead. I cannot sit still. I think in tommy-gun bursts, censoring nothing, saying whatever I feel. You must trust me when I say that this tendency can be as comforting as it is unsettling, because when I tell you fearlessly how much I care for you, at least you'll know I mean it.
I adore you. I long for you. I miss your smile and I miss your voice. I miss your body, the warmth and weight of you against me. I miss your furrowed brow and your distant look of concentration. Your racing stripes. Your dirty socks, grubby hands, your disgusting nicotine spit. I miss your kisses, the scent of your neck, your affectionate hugs and tackles, your busy perpetual motion.
Could you ever be quite so beautiful to someone else's eyes,
And will you not come to me?
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