Addicted to the dreams where we still exist.
To the grip of your side of the bed.
To the shadows of contentment and the whispers of comfort.
To the idea that our distance is temporary.
To the box of evidence, out of sight.
To the memories of our battles and their inconsistent victories.
To the pride taken in your company.
To the challenges you proposed in nearly every circumstance.
To the old feeling of your expected return.
To the idea that this is all a mistake.
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