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It is Monday.

Cold feet. Loneliness. Worry. Lots of hairspray to tame my hair. A random smell of cinnamon oatmeal that hangs around a coat I rediscovered from the back of a closet.

You are wearing your red polo shirt. Again. Still haven’t shaved. You send me kisses.

A boss’s criticisms. I whine to you, expecting you to tell me it’s reasonable (which it is). You reply with only sympathy. I reply with the emoticon sticking out it’s tongue. I do not tell you how much it means to me. That even at my worst, you respond with only love.

I see only a glimpse of you all day long. The texts we exchange are like water drops to a man dying of thirst. They taste like heaven but they leave me longing for more.

My blog gains sparse attention. You laud me like I am the newest Hemingway. I laugh it off, but inside I am blooming. I know, comparatively, I am barely noticed but I hope the notes continue.

The TV is on. A flock of girls giggling and pretending that reality television is actual romance as they fight over a feminine looking man. I turn away.

Love is so much more than they will ever understand.

Bad news on my grandfather. Cold leftovers sitting on the floor. My sister stops in search of cheese. We laugh and harass the cat. She goes away. I climb the stairs and curl up under my sheets.

You are so far from me. And you are sick. I need you here with me. An all-to-familiar pain.

It is Monday and I love you.

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