The figs we ate afterward were warm, soft, wrapped in prosciutto. Perfection, on arugula, and I would have offered my bite to you.
I woke this morning to a clear day, warm, gentle. I woke, rolled out of bed and wandered into Sunday, into the breeze and thinking about the figs, and what I would tell you about them. That they were warm, soft, sweet, like a Saturday.
That they made me miss you.
Songs I love make me long for you, but they are not our songs.
I miss you here, wish you were woven into the fabric, and not only wrapped in it.
I wish I knew the saltwater that hits your face when you dream, the sun that freckles your skin.
I wish you could take my secrets and keep them a little closer, a little longer, and not in a box, hidden away.
I wish that the scent of my hair were in your pillowcase, too, so that each morning, when you awoke, you reached for me.