My body misses its keeper. My skin misses the grooves of your fingertips. You did exactly what you needed to, your job here is done- on to the next person who needs you, maybe you'll find you need them too, and that scares me half to death. When I'm 50 I'll go through these pages and see how many of them are filled with words of you, and maybe I'll pick up the phone, and dial your number, and maybe then that'll be our time; but till then I'm sleeping in a bed alone, with my love away on another planet in another universe trying to find his own. I crave the day I wake up and don't compare the beauty of a new day to the color of your eyes, or the feeling of running my fingers through the deep August grass to them tangled in your hair. I will try to not associate the sight of crushed beer cans, the smell of burnt firewood, the birds morning songs to all the drunken nights turned mornings when we crawled from our tents and craved coffee with our cigarettes. Pass the cream, wont ya sugar?