December 19th.

You have been, involuntarily, the only thing on my mind for the last week and a half. You are my favorite catchy song and I am a broken record player. You are invading and all-consuming, and I can’t seem to get you out. I’d chew some gum, but I don’t like to. I’d listen to another song, but I don’t want to. I’d do a puzzle, but you’re confusing enough. I’d let it fade away, but I've no desire to. Finishing the song might be my only option, but I’m not brave enough to, and now, you’re so very far away.

So, I bite my nails to the quick, twirl my hair till it falls, and check my phone until it dies.

I think of you on the drive home, where we will reunite a month from now, how close we’ll be once we do. Til then, I wonder if you’d call, I hope you’ll text.

I make it home and feel constraint. I need to write about your curly hair and how you cared enough to ask me if you should bleach it again or let it grow; it looks good either way. I think of how your friends danced all night long and all mine had their own hands full, while you never left my side. How you pulled me aside when others got too close, partially protective, partially possessive; guiding me out of their way and into yours. You held my hands and you wore my rings. Far more delicately than I did, you peeled my nail polish off and had the audacity to ask if I was nervous. Your hands on my face and your lips on my neck. You told me you didn’t want things to be awkward. I said they didn’t have to be.

Now, I lie in bed, I make my coffee, I drive my car, I read my books and I picture your pretty face, I feel your phantom touches, I hear you whisper my name.

I am sick to my stomach with want, with desire, with need; I am pained thinking of the distance between us and worse if I think of the time. I am clueless and stuck, frozen in it.