I had a dream about you, the other night.
I had come back from New York, a sensation, busy as always, richer than expected, for a weekend during your dead week, and my off-season. We went to a party, and you were just as beautiful as I always remember you. And as the night drew to a close, we took a stroll, a quiet walk by the Old Port, knocking wrists as we always do, and I watched you calmly, my heart aching to feel yours.
And just as the sun was rising, I stopped you. I held your cold hands in mine, laced our fingers loose and close, and I pressed my forehead to yours, inhaled your scent at long last. And I told you, "New York is amazing. But sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes, I ask myself, 'When will it be enough? How much longer will you stay here, before you go home? Go back to her. This isn't the person you need to be. This life isn't what you want, if she isn't in it. Go home. Go back to her.'"
It was a lot.
I didn't know I liked you this much.
Maybe it's just a dream.
But I miss you
so much
when you aren't around.
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