I stand in your thin shorts, rubbing a hanging thread between the pads of my fingers. It is nice, feeling so close to you. It was harder in the beginning, because I knew that the more familiar I became with you, the more I allowed myself to love you, the farther away you would seem when you went away. I’m sorry, I am anticipating absence despite your assurances. Even now, I imagine you into every emptiness of a room. It’s a desperate gesture, a survival method to cushion the poignancy of missing you. It will never be as good as being held.