I couldn't tell you how many times I've typed your name into my phone, just to let you know I couldn't sleep and our time difference usually works in favor of my insomnia. But I stopped pressing send. I tried to a long time ago, but something - usually work or whiskey - always made my fingers slip. But it's real this time. I stopped. And now I miss you and want to tell you. It's not romantic or sexual - it's just comfort. You're comfort. You're like HGTV on a hotel screen with a bowl of EasyMac. You feel like home in the most platonic way. Maybe because I spent so much time not home this year and you were always there, in one way or another. But something changed - or really, I just noticed it. I've got too many missing pieces and you don't carry glue.









