I think of you hard and sweet and often. Generally, you’re bound and uncharacteristically attentive in my head, with those inhuman blue eyes that beg sweet and test my self-restraint.
Damn. I miss you. I miss your eyes and your voice and your smell. I miss who I am when I’m with you.
I’m half-lost tending to work and life–the day-to-day responsibilities I enjoy, but the ones that get in the way of what I look forward to.
Two more projects to finish, a few hours of sleep, and then tomorrow, and the next day, and then maybe I can see you.
I’m looking forward to it.
I fucking miss you. I miss fucking you.