I miss you.

I want to say be somewhere I can meet you, and I want to say, yeah, I’ll drive over later. There are two problems with the latter. It would be at least five hours of impatient sitting at a wheel in the dark. Squinting nervously at the car which pulls too close too fast, and squirming with claustrophobia in an inevitable jam. I hate the idea of being blocked off from all sides, front back left right, stuck in a little metal box with wheels amongst hundreds of similar metal boxes with wheels. The limited range of colours does nothing much to combat the encroaching feel of jam-insignificance. All these people with somewhere to be, something I never think about when I leave the house to go somewhere.

More importantly perhaps, I don’t drive.

I want to do the crazy stupid things we’d have more time for if we didn’t have to condense everything into a few days a month. Judith said, love-struck, … and sometimes we’ll be sitting there in café, and he’ll lick my face. Not that I want you to lick my face or vice versa, but something similarly random would be right down at the bottom of the list of things to do with our marked time. It would be nice not to have that list in my head.

If I lived two hours away from you, I’d get on a train right now and surprise you on your way back from somewhere, climbing the stairs to your apartment door. Or crashed out on your bed, burned out from exams and waking up way before it gets light outside.

You have hijacked my thoughts. Would you please return me a few in the mail? It makes everything move very very slowly, having my mind not where I am. Listening to that mix CD you made for my sister for Christmas does not help. Nor does embroiling myself in someone else’s printed paper world, because although I may have hijacked a mind there myself, the difference is that it was up for the taking, and it doesn’t bring mine back.

Love x