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Location: Home.

Just got off the phone with Peter. A little less than exactly 72 hours before I see him again. It feels like another three weeks, of course. The shorter the time, the slower it crawls. Now that I'm no longer resigned to the space, I'm restless and yearning...

It's not just the overwhelming, immediate lust, although that's a significant component. I'm not looking forward to sweeping the bed of laundry and crawling inside because I know I'll be waking once again to just myself, lying there, wishing I could reach over and put my fingers against his skin--that easy, ready contact that I almost took for granted for the past (almost) 8 months now. This trip has been good for me in ways I didn't imagine possible--but I'm ready for it to end...for him to be here when I get home from work...to nestle my head on his chest and drift off, knowing that he'll be there when I open my eyes...

This is the small damage that time does--this longing that leaves such slight but definite scars. I forget my former delusions and paranoias, look at the clock a seeming thousand times a day...and wait.