Most mornings, before opening my eyes and inviting the real world into my consciousness, I reach out with fingers and hands open across the emptiness that consumes my bed. I search under the sheets and sprawl my body about the dimension of it. Deep down, I guess I know you won't be there, but I like to imagine my wandering hands finding your warm back, or maybe your leg or arm, and upon discovery softly applying my palm to your delicate skin. I imagine, despite my care not to disturb you, you stir just a bit until you awake as well. Realizing I have begun to caress you, your hand finds mine. You pull me to you. With eyes closed and breath slow, our bodies unite in warm embrace.
In this moment, we realize that whatever questions or doubts there may be outside of us, we have found the truest reason to live. Everything else is extra. In each other's arms, we have all we need. It's warm, it's safe, it's complete.
Sometimes I get lost in this fantasy for considerable durations. I'm often late getting up, which I don't mind at all. As I open my eyes, I confront the reality that another 15-18 hours will pass before I am close to you again. Even though you are in my mind all day, I feel most connected to you when I'm alone.
Before you, I never really gave much weight to the concept of hope. I didn't do it, I didn't see it's worth, and I failed to understand how anyone could. Now, as I lay awake, occupying a lonely corner of a void which only you can fill, all I do is hope. When I wake tomorrow, stretching my arms across the void, will you be there?
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