Some days I just want to forget.

To sleep in my bed alone and feel whole. Feel safe.

When I was younger coming home meant the work was done. I could leave my outside face in all it’s shiny silicone glory at the door. I could climb into bed and feel wholly my own.

Today, coming home is coming home to you. Once upon a time, this was everything and this was enough. Building a home, sharing a space, just breathing in each other’s warmth. A safe place 16 floors up where the rest of the earth could fall away.

But coming home to you these days is a dance. A careful one. Calculated. I feel safe when you’re here but not for the same reasons. When you’re gone, sleeping soundly is tall. I can no longer tell if I’m still a safe place for you. We’re a bunker 16 floors up. Sometimes, you take outside home with you.

The days are getting warmer. We fell in love on a summer just like this one. Hot, sticky, but earnest.

Just you and me.


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