each day at 11 I run out and check the mail. When will it come? Will it be in a big envelope? Small? disheveled? ripped? crisp? Will it contain good news, or something that will punch me in the gut, leaving my hands shaking?
each day I look around, it feels frantic, chaotic, squeezing in. When will it change? When will my chaos melt into some kind of harmony. When will it feel like mine, when will it be worth organizing? when will I find home that is home, not temporary-it-can-wait-til-someday-in-the-future, but it can be worth it, now?
each day i think, i need to see him. When can I get there? When can we look each other in the eyes, and say hello, and smile and laugh together? When can we share the same temperature, or the same mosquito buzzing in our ears, or the same crunch of twigs underfoot in the woods? When can I know if he bites his fingernails, or cuts them straight, or if he turns his socks right-side-out, or has a smell to recognize? when can I see how his eyes crinkle when he laughs, or if he fidgets when he's bored, or how he looks when he is mad?
when will life be more about living, then waiting?