You’re on a runway somewhere in New York right now and it’s tragic. My phone is useless. I can’t hear your voice or see you. I can’t look into your eyes and feel our comfort and our history. I can’t handle this emptiness next to me. These sheets smell like you and I’m dreading the thought of doing laundry today. Perhaps I’ll do it tomorrow or the day after that. I can’t sleep without the smell of you. The sound of you. The sight of you. The embrace of you. I’m going to hate Monday morning. I’m going to hate every “how was your weekend?” because it’ll bring a pang of these exact feelings I have now. I don’t want you touched in places that are mine. Places only I should kiss. Places that flex to my touch. I’m not sure what you’re doing over there right now but please come home soon. Please.