I would say it’s the evenings I miss you most.
Because it’s the evenings where I think of us cuddled up, on the sofa or on the bed, my head on your chest, your arms wrapped around me, keeping me safe.
You always protect me. When I asked you, ‘why do you always sleep on the side closest to the door?’ and you shrugged, replied simply, ‘in case an intruder comes in – I’ll be the one they see first,’ I fell in love with you that bit more.
Whether it’s us whispering secrets under the blanket of darkness, or eating Thai and watching Dave Chappelle, evenings have always been special.
But then so have the nights, and the mornings, and the afternoons: the times where we’ve gone to sleep with the moonlight on us, had brunch and gone to bookshops. The times where we’ve walked in parks, had coffee, the times where we’ve tried to go to the farm, or to the theatre, or to a museum, but didn’t, because we wanted to be at home with only each other.
I would say it’s the evenings I miss you most, but it’s not true. Because I miss and love you always.