I want him to stay.
But I know he can’t.
I don’t even know why it’s a big deal.
I’m working all day. Then it’s group on Tuesday.
I go home and write. Sometimes. If he’s not there.
If he’s here, I go home and talk and laugh and watch TV and gripe and complain about who does the dishes and we debate my Young and the Restless obsession and why I should watch something different and…all the little things in life. And then I write. Sometimes.
And I lay in bed next to him listening to him breathing, inhaling his scent, luxuriating in his nearness. If he’s here.
And when he’s not I sprawl out over the entire surface and pull his pillows to me and wish the neighbors would stop talking even though it’s not that bad with ocean waves playing.
People do this. They live in separate spaces, far more than we have. I feel almost guilty for what I wish, what I want.
We’re almost there where he’ll be here all the time. We’re almost there.