I’m sitting here counting the times I felt my breath stall out by how many bug bites have littered my arms.
And I remember how in between stolen kisses you touched my wrist, went very still and told me that the pulse beneath your fingers was the rhythm of the different drum that you danced to. That the way my eyes sparked was the light you would use to guide you home.
To me, to me, home to me.
But every tear, every pitter-patter of my swollen heart [not broken, just completely aware of its engorged and painful existence] is a desperate reminder than you are now on the other side of the country and i, i, i am still right here.
So I will just sit in the echo of your raspy twang, draw your smile on the bottom of napkins and count the bug bites until you come home.
Until I am home. Until we are together.
