I miss our conversations at 4am. My time. I miss the provocativeness of talking about absolutely nothing of any importance for hours. I miss my sleepy, sluggish, somewhat coherent words, that revealed an honesty that you might not have heard if it wasn’t the wee hours of the morning. I miss the bravado of your voice that rhythmically danced in unison along side the raindrops outside my window. I miss visualizing that you were here with me. You never knew that long after we’d said goodnight, I’d lye there and think about you.

Perhaps you’ve noticed that I don’t call you at 4am anymore, because it’s no longer appropriate. Perhaps you’ve notice that I don’t call much at all.

But if it were 4am at this very moment, and my thoughts were only somewhat coherent, and I were drunk with sleepiness and honesty… I’d tell you that I miss you, and it hurts.