and i thought that you might save me; from the dark side of the moon.

I write. I read. I paint.

I meet friends for coffee. I giggle over shoes with friends. I have heart-to-hearts with friends at bus stops.

I walk in falling leaves. I buy a beautiful dress I can twirl in. I become a member of my local library.

I do laundry. I do groceries. I cook.

I watch TV that he hates. I dance to music he’d laugh at. I read out loud from poetry he’d groan at.

I keep books on his pillow so his side of the bed isn’t bare. I sleep diagonally. I sleep with 2 quilts to replace his warmth.

It’s a nice life. I’m my own mistress, and I do whatever I want. I have no-one to report to, no-one to rush home to, no-one to coax out of bed on sunny days.

But despite the freedom and the independence, the thing I do most of all, is count. 14 days. 13 days. 12 days.

The days before he’ll come home. And I can stop counting.

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