Telephones Aren't Romantic

There is a difference over the phone... something about his voice that isn't exactly the same. Maybe he's tired. Maybe he had a bad day. Or maybe, he just misses me.

That's the fantasy I live in most. I think that he just can't stand being apart. I think that everywhere he looks, he's reminded of me. My clothes are there - I wonder if he ever walks into the closet and presses his face into one of my sweaters. My books are there - he hates poetry - does he ever pick one up and just give it a try? - just to be closer to me? My pictures are there and I wonder if he ever speaks to me - ever offers up an 'I love you' or 'I miss you' - the kind that's whispered extra-softly, but echoes through his big, empty house.

I see him everywhere here. In this crowded city, I see his blue eyes shining with some sort of mischief. I see his little grin - the one that shows off the dimple - the one that means he's done something or is about to do something that I will more than likely reprimand him for... which is what he wants... and will lead to the biggest, loudest laugh you have ever heard from a man. I hear that laugh, see him bend over and hold his stomach, and can almost feel him embrace me so hard that he picks me up. That's how he laughs. I love how he laughs.

But I miss it all over the phone.