Mornings

I draw the curtains and sit on the high stool by the window, waiting for you to come home. I have tried writing almost the entire day yesterday, but have ended up deleting what paltry lines I've put down.

I am a little restless. This morning, the sound of the waves fail to soothe my nerves--I sit here, watching the sea, biting the ends of my nails, my cup of tea grown cold.

You have been gone for two days. For two days, I have not heard the door knob click open, have not heard your voice boom that "I'm home, Love!" which is music to my ears, have not been swept into your arms and smothered with your kisses, have not giggled at your jokes or laughed at your antics. I am cold from the lack of your warmth. I miss peeking through the curtains and watching you chop wood.

Two days is too long a time.

Please come home.