Days have gone by enough that you aren't real anymore. You are anything and everything I imagine, but with me.
I can't think you into my embrace it's been too long but I try, oh god... Do I...
I could, I had, in sleepy fits thought of your presence and been sweetly surprised by your warm press.
Sleepy fits that elude me now, that sting my eyes and wish for your kisses to take away the pointless drops and with them my desperation.
I am desperate, I admit; for the beginning, for the end. For anything that isn't me alone in this house, waiting for something wonderful to take me out of this middle and the hurt it means to me.
Sleepy fits teasing me with sheets and blankets that know. And their knowing is cruel because I want more than anything to be pressed close to you, warm, and fulfilled for the first time because you don't have to go.