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  • You are on your way. I buzz about expectingly. Only six days ago you went away, and yet now that you're on your way I buzz about and feel young and slightly anxious. My head will lay on your shoulder, my cheek so perfectly cupped in that small valley. Our skin again one. Your smile melting into my lips.

    It is a thoroughly strange feeling, missing you. Contradictory; its melancholy feels me with joy. The longing becomes but a recognition, a statement of my love. Not that I take you for granted, but I like to feel that in my heart, in my skin, my feet.

    We all (those relatively independent parts of me and myself) await your return, and buzz about, placing this chair now here, now there, painting the big blue table a fresher blue, dusting and making new dust, stuffing the oven to fill every corner of every room with the smell of slowly roasted heaven, trying to make our home the most wonderful place, a place you won't want to leave.

    Probably I will tell you again, maybe in a couple months or a year, that I want to be alone. It won't be that I want to be without you. It is the longing what I will long for.

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