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I want to come home to you. To unlock the door and find you there waiting, sprawled on the couch, staring at the bright screen of the television. I want to let my shoulders sag as the prententions I wear for the world slide away. You would grin at me and we could curl up in the warm embrace of the sofa and kiss before you ask about my day. I could grumble between kisses. But the things that annoy me would quickly slip away as your arms slip around me.

I want my stuff piled next to yours and the mess to not be yours but ours. And to swear to be neater together. I want to come home together and put the groceries away, as I tease you about the cabinet doors that are swinging open, because somehow there’s never enough time in your day to close them.

I want to get out my things. Turn on my laptop or change my clothes or start the chores, as you go about your day. As you take off your shoes and put on your sweatpants. I want my life, but I want it to be by your side. Our worlds fitting together seamlessly.

Because you are my home. My family is slipping away, growing up and moving on. The role of raising me is no longer current. You are my family. You are the one I rush to see and plan my day around. You are the one I lean on for comfort and entertainment. You are my confidante and my love.

But you are not close enough to me. I want our pillows and our closets and our pizza boxes and our plates. I want long evenings watching television with my head on your lap. I want shopping trips and family visits and afternoons waiting for you to get off work. I want us.

I want to say goodbye to saying goodbye to you.

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