solitary

as written, Thursday July fifth:

You won’t read this for at least a couple days. I won’t even type it out until probably four days from now. But I miss you. I miss the feeling that I get when you’re around. I miss your conversation. I miss your smile. I miss your laugh. I miss your eyes. I miss your kisses.

I’m out in the middle of nowhere and I can only think of how great it would be if you were around. How great it would be to walk around the trees with you. How great it’d be down by the river. I want to share this with you. I see things in relation to how you’d enjoy it—if at all. I think you’d like it here. And that’s why I wish you could be chilling along with me.

It’s not that I’m distracted, but more that you’re on my mind. And because of that, I can’t seem to enjoy myself as much as I know I could. My enjoyment has never really been determined by someone, but I have no complaints.

There are quite a few people. There are a ton of things going on. There is nature. There is the river. There is the alcohol. There is television. There is a chipmunk. There are assorted bars. There are games to play. There is fire. But you’re not here. And I find that it is harder and harder to feel content when there’s no you.