Tomorrow

I'm dreaming of faster things, wilder and free-er than here. I'm waiting with tight breath for the last few hours to be the last few minutes, four days worth of hugging and nose pressing into shoulder to catch up on. Tomorrow I can breathe. I will dig my whole face into a pile of shirts and find my comfort - just the thought of it leads me to thinking about a warm ghost heartbeat in the phantom chest, pressed against me in memories. It's making me drool a little. The kitchen will be all mine again, and I can provide for my man, and he can cradle me.

The reality will be different. He will be lazy and high, and I will be fed up and demanding and bored. Nothing will be like fairy-tale dream Khloe wishes. Right now I'd settle for a cuddle and a movie.

Why does four days even seem so long? I can do overnight, but after a few days I turn into mopey pathetic nothing-is-good person who needs her bed and her space and her lack of space all back at once.

When I get home, I'm putting on my jammies and a clean shirt, picking some movies to watch when Mike comes back from work, taking curry out to defrost, and then... rolling up in the duvet and waiting, maybe on Xbox.