My thoughts have been stale without the possibility that you’ll ring me one day and tell me that you’ve missed me.
I daydream of the way your words will slur on the phone because you’ve been drowning the memories of me in wine, just like I have.
Your fingers will gently hold the glass and you’ll swirl it and laugh into the receiver as you tell me you hadn’t realized you’d finished a whole bottle.
Your voice will be sad and I’ll rejoice in it, and reluctantly tell you that i’ve held my breath at the passing of every black Nissan Sentra since you left.
But this isn’t a romantic comedy or a book, where you’ll stand outside my window in the rain or find me at a party too intoxicated to drive home and you’ll rescue me from myself.