I missed you this weekend, figment of my imagination. I wish I could wipe the spit from your face, pick you up and carry you home.
I miss my hands in the raw and open wounds of others. I used to think I could get in there and clean, dress and heal those wounds but I traded that in for a desk when it got to be too much. Sometimes I want it all back.
And you. I barely missed you at all. I had wheels. I could fly. I wasn’t pinned down by anyone. I was me and me alone, even if it was for just one night.