I have not seen you in 53 hours and 57 minutes.
I wake up. Sunday morning. Everything is quiet. Outside, the world is moving. It hums, and bustles. It hurries and goes. It leaves us behind, but we don’t know that. We are elsewhere. We are here. And nothing can mar our perfection.
You are asleep. Your chest rises, and then falls in perfect rhythm. Inhale, exhale. The mattress lowers and evens beneath you. You are warm. You smell like Christmas, like cinnamon, like children’s laughter. You smell like you. Your breathing is loud, and deliberate and calming.
You are here. You are really here. This is really happening. This is us. In some fold of time and space, we are existing in this moment, on a Sunday morning, sixteen floors above ground.
Shadows run down your jaw to the curve of your neck. I trace your lips, your jawline, your nose. My fingers brush over the curve of your cheekbones, the tip of your chin, the arch of your eyes. I watch your skin disappear beneath the mouth of your shirt. My heart sinks.
You are bathed in the light of this overcast morning, and you are perfect. You are mine. I want to wake you up and show you how beautiful you are. I want you to know how much I love you.
I want so much for you to stay.
You are here. You are really here.
I have not seen you in 54 hours and 12 minutes.
And I miss you. Ardently. Fatuously.