J,

My bed misses you (the sheets hold your outline and your scent). So do my arms, and so do my lips. I miss you most of all. It has been only 13 hours since we saw each other, touched each other. Maybe we should have eased into this; spending so much time together at the very start makes the times apart worse. No, never mind. I wouldn't trade the last week for anything except maybe another week. And I have a feeling that will come on its (our) own volition. We miss each other. We say so. We feel silly and sappy and don't care. You say you are addicted. I am addicted too.

Your words flash on this screen: a consolation, but no substitute. The heart you drew is pinned like a butterfly to my ceiling (but unlike a pinned butterfly--it seems more alive somehow, and I feel that it would be warm if I touched it). Your eyes swim in mine when I blink. I'll take all these things until...

I know that no matter how little sleep I get tonight, when I see you tomorrow my eyes will be wide open and smiling. Everything seems new, and exciting, and scary and great. I feel much lighter than all these leaden hieroglyphs would lead one to believe.

No apologies for any of this. I feel strongly and unashamed, but know I don't have to tell you that, don't have to explain any of this away. You make me so happy. You make me write saccharine notes on blogs for the cynical world to read. You make embarrassment an impossibility. Even now I am smiling. Je t'adore.

S