When it’s dinner time here, he’s going to bed there. We say goodnight, always a drawn out and adoring bit of texting or Skyping, and when I set down my phone I have to let him go. It’s only for the night, sure, but he’s already so far, we are already in the here/there of over seven thousand kilometres, just for the night … it may as well be to the moon and back.
Mostly it’s fine. I turn my mind to other things, other people and pets and chores and regular life that needs my attention. I cook and talk and laugh and fuck; I do all the things I’d do if I’d never met him, all the things I’d be doing if I didn’t know that he was sleeping eight time zones away. It’s when I pause that he floods back in, the tide in my veins that I can’t ignore, the heat in my chest and the tremor in my fingertips.
Is he dreaming of me while I daydream of him?