I’m Not Here

I’m sitting on a balcony with you, watching the sunset across the Mediterranean. We’re drinking red wine we didn’t realize was dessert.

I’m watching your shoulder blades slide under your shirt as you hike in front of me to a waterfall overlook.

I’m reading next to you in bed, touching my foot to yours.

I’m holding your hand across a table, waiting for our plate of cheeses and fig spread to arrive.

I’m digging in the dirt in your garden, planting herbs, listening to the squirrels chatter in your avocado tree.

I’m resting my head on your shoulder in a movie theater.

I’m licking gelato off your spoon as we shiver in Rome’s evening air.

I’m riding down Lombard Street as you wiggle my car around each curve, driving one-handed while drinking your coffee.

I’m staring out across a vineyard, wanting to bottle the moment, dreaming of the day we’ll have a backyard full of vines.

I’m eating yogurt and honey. A new favorite breakfast you taught me to eat. We’re in the rooftop restaurant, awaiting our trip to the Acropolis.

I’m riding a bicycle alongside you with the waves crashing on Santa Monica beach.

I’m holding you close, staring at the ceiling of a converted monastery, listening to U2 sing “In a Little While.” In a little while, surely you’ll be mine. In a little while I’ll be there. In a little while, this hurt will hurt no more. I'll be home. Love. I can’t help but cry.

I’m hiding. From the calendar and the clock. Hiding my eyes from the blank months ahead when I’ll be here and you’ll be there.