Two

I think of you.

Sometimes.

In the nighttime when I’m lying in bed and sleep eludes me.

The truth is I miss you. Not in the way one might ordinarily miss someone, with a sense of loneliness and emptiness, but in the way one might miss the spring when the winter kills off the trees. Like one who listens to a song from their childhood and yearns to return to the good old days far before ever knowing they were the good old days.

What makes it worse is that you’re right there, waiting for me everyday.

All I have to do is go to you, take your hand in mine and beat on, boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.