My days crawl along in slow motion. I walk around only half-present, living instead in my daydreams of being with you. Or even just around you. In my head, I constantly say your name. I love how it feels on my silent tongue, how it rolls effortlessly, endlessly between my lips and that space inside me where you live.

What are your days like now?

I asked you once if you sometimes think of me. You said, “All the time.” Am I in your mind now? Do you replay our nights together, hours spent talking and holding hands? Do you, too, marvel at how, after more than twenty years, we still can’t stop touching each other?

I sit at my kitchen table writing this, but I may as well be sitting next to you in a dark corner, our hands intertwined, our world reduced to those few square feet of space containing us. Together and apart from this world. For that moment, our love is right. And nothing to hide.