6 Hours

For six hours of the day you’re not with me.

And you should be with me! This ring on my finger says so.

For six hours there’s not that brilliant, hilarious, caring, responsive presence of yours reaching out through my phone, tempting me all day at work. That mind that I first fell for through the phone: sexting on the top of a mountain in Italy, me chuckling and getting hard. Instead, it’s silent.

No one said it would get so much more nagging, aching after the big date. These six hours.

Shit got real, but I’m not frightened of it. It’s more exciting than anything I’ve known before. I want this so much.

It hurts every day, but the anticipation is so sweet. Every domestic thought fills me with longing: coming home to you, bustling in the kitchen, going to bed, planning and scheming our life together, having the most intimate trance. Games and rituals and private jokes. Helping you blossom into your new life and seeing it unfold in the most delightful and unexpected ways.

It can’t really be that sweet all the time can it? Won’t I get used to it? Won’t little things start to intrude, to make it more of a mixture, more like the lumpiness of real life, with its highs and lows?

But I believe in a satellite-laser-blast of happiness, that we will be bathed in it, even if it doesn’t stay as pure and simple for long. I believe it’s coming. We are due it.

Less than eight weeks. I should savour this time - the solitude, the flexibility, even the longing. It will be over soon enough.

But goddamn. Six hours.