I commute to work, and today instead of sleeping I decided to do some writing. I'm sick, you know, that cloudy feeling, sinus pressure, some nausea...Good times. Hopefully when I reread the writing once I feel better, I will still like this piece.

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They're just words. Every single one about you. Essays, notes, poems, your presence is in all of it. A cup of tea, spring morning, open window. Allergy season. You look so cute when you wake up with red, teary eyes and a nose to match. I don't mind going to the pharmacy for you, even if the only one open this early is a 30 minute drive. That's what we get for living in suburbia. Suburbia...Driving is a necessity. I had to learn...I also had to learn to buy things in advance, there is no such thing as a midnight craving anymore, everything requires planning. It's new. But I can handle this, you love the house, the cars, the garden...I remember how your eyes lit u when you finally found the perfect swing to put in the tree shadows.
It's 7 am and I hit the morning traffic. This drive is slowly becoming infinite. The radio plays shit songs, I turn it off. Breath in, breath out. It's not too bad. Eventually I'll come back to the house, the house where you fulfilled your dreams, the house furnished like a catalogue, the house that's never messy. Your house.