I'm sitting here, listening to Andrew Bird warble in the other room, imagining what it would like to be with you. The morning sun is making bright diagonals across the cream-colored wall in the distance. You're sitting, one leg crossed and one stretched out on the bed. I keep wanting to brush that strand of hair out of your eyes. There's coffee ready, but I'm not going to go fill my cup until your eyes are no longer lit up from the inside by that beam that catches them at just the right angle. You're wearing a light green top, cut to be loose and soft. I keep marveling at the seamless transition that brought us from then to now and, if I'm lucky, will take us back in time shortly. I have that tingly feeling surging up from the base of my spine. It makes my neck shiver. You don't exist.