It isn't that the realization of your eventual return isn't sure.
It isn't a(n insecure) belief in waning affections and the sparkling allure in shiny new toys.
I don't believe the world will stop turning in your absence.
It's that I just miss you.
And it hurts.
I feel your absence.
Constantly.
And the memory of you will never replace the real thing.
So here I sit, in one of your very-much-so-overlarge shirts. The ones that are almost-dresses, brushing far past mid-thigh, soft and worn.
Remembering
Your smell.
Your warmth.
Your laughter.
Hugs.
Kisses.
Love.
Just come back safe you doofus.
(Days left: 52)
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