You Should Post Some More
“You should post some more,” she tells me, running her fingers through my hair. “People’ll start thinking you’re dead.” Y’should post s’more. People’ll staht thinkin’ ya dead. She lilts the words, just a little, her light Georgia accent not nearly strong enough to drawl.
I’m sleeping. I know it. She is the girl in my dreams, for a long time the only one and even now the only one who stayed. Not a muse, she is my friend and I suppose my sometime lover, a private blessing born somewhere deep in my subconscious mind. It’s been eight years since I last heard her voice aloud. Really it belongs to Evette, to the girl I loved in high-school, to the girl who taught me to love myself, but my girl-dream kept it for me and made it her own.
I turn my head a little in her lap, kissing at the palm of her hand before I open my eyes again. The summer has tanned her since I saw her last, but only just a shade, and the light brings out the dark, ruby fire in her auburn hair. “Tybalt doesn’t want to play today,” I murmur.
“I think you’re just happy right here,” she laughs, slipping her hands away, and her warm, black jeans press against my cheek. I don’t deny it, don’t even try, just make happy meowling noises up at her. Writing something means waking up, at least, leaving her behind again. She comes and goes as it pleases her; it might be months before I see her again. Part of me always worries that, one day, she might not come back.
She knows what I’m thinking, though, and she lifts my head, bending over me to press a kiss against my lips. “How long’ve you known me?”
“Seven years.”
“And I’m always here for you.”
“Not always.”
She looks hurt by the thought, and I regret it right away. “When you need me, I’m here.”
Sitting up, I turn and hold her back. ” . . . yes.” My fingers trace the soft channel of her spine, over and over, in silent apology, until she melts and forgives me, squeezing me tight.
“Kiss me, stupid. It’s been a long time.” she whispers, giggling, and I do, first her cheek, then her lips, then lower, letting her guide me down the long, fine tendons in her neck, to the ridge of her collar and the smeared, ink-black memories of something I wrote on her before. “Write something, okay?” She eases away, two fingers pressed at the edges of my teeth. “For me. I’ll wait right here.”
I nip at her fingertips and make her glare. “Promise?”
The crack of her smile tells me all I need to know.
came across this searching for “i miss my ldr.” beautifully written. i feel your pain.
I hope the distance closes soon for you.