Last time I spoke to you, you were adamant that this was a temporary situation. You had the mile markers all mapped out, a new playlist for your wandering heart, just waiting on a paycheck for a tank of gas. That was months ago, now. I’ve not read your(more) letters, though you keep sending them. I got a postcard of the Grand Canyon addressed in your handwriting. I couldn’t flip it over for fear of the world’s worst heartache scratched out in pen, “wish you were here xoxo”. Couldn’t imagine you standing on the edge, smiling, 2,076 miles farther away than the last time I spoke to you. Last time I saw your face you were blonde. Blonde and smiling through tears you swore you were crying because you’d miss me. I believe you. Always do. Besides, how could the resonance of my unforgettable aching chest not reach you, even hundreds of miles away? How you could you not respond in kind? You had to miss me, darling, you said so, so many times. Last time I kissed you, you tasted like salt water and raspberry chapstick. You kissed me back, my lips swollen, and moved on down my jaw to my neck, down my shoulder to the tips of my fingers. You looked up at me with my hand at your mouth and winked, said this would be a temporary situation. Last time I spoke to you, you had hiccups.