To my love.
I miss you. Being down in California for week, away from you and our happy home, ebbs me in a way I try not to mention when we talk. I get glimpses of what my solitary life would be like without you. I'm encased in a studio apartment in my hotel while I'm down here for two weeks working. It feels more like a stuffy box wrapped in a simulation of comfortable living. Everything is me, and there's a void where you used to be. I never want that eroded or filled up. I want to be with you. Being alone is not the same as being lonely, but when I eventually think of you, there's a blankness, a psychic hole that sinks me into longing.
I miss you. This has been the longest time we've been appear since you traveled to Germany years ago. I felt adrift during that time then, and I recall that floating, pale sensation now, wrapping itself around my chest and throat.
Saturday. Home Saturday. Home with you and the cats. Soon, in the distance, it's coming.
I love you.