9:14 pm

I am a strong woman.  I am fiercely independent.  My bones rarely crush under the weight of loneliness.  But then, every so often, my thoughts drift to you.  I re-read our conversations from the day.  I let myself imagine the world we could have had.  I let myself drown in possibility and wasted time.  I bruise my knees while begging for another chance.  Wishing for a future.  

What are the right words to say.  How do I tell you that I am ok until Sunday night at 9:14 pm when I reach across my bedsheets and wish they were filled with you.   

So I am still strong.  I am still fiercely independent.  But sometimes, just sometimes, at 9:14 pm my heart melts between my fingers and suspends frozen as I hold it back from breaking open right in front of you.  Scared to say too much.  Scared to say too little. I miss you. I loved you.  I love you.  The cursor moves forward and then back.  Not tonight.  Don't do it tonight.  Don't ruin this with your sentimentality.  Don't spill your emotions all over the perfect portrait you've created.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe Wednesday.  Not in the sweet swirling nostalgia of a Sunday night.  Sunday nights are for soft edges of lies, not the hard corners of truth.  Maybe Thursday or Saturday or next month or on your birthday or at Christmas. Just any time but tonight.  

"headed to bed. good night."

"night"

Gatsby had his green light.  The hope.  The possibility.  The longing.  

My green light is a red notification and buzz of my phone.  

And wishing for endless Sunday nights.