Hi, I'm in the air.  I'm following you home after another night that lasted too long in the darkest corner of the most seedy bar on the street you grew up on.  The bar across from that empty lot where you kicked rocks at the other boys and made out with that girl Susan, the one every other boy loved in junior high but only you got to kiss.  You told me everything I wanted to hear, shared and spared nothing to keep me smiling.  I'm watching as you stumble into bed, trying so hard to remove that sock on your right foot but failing and collapsing onto your medium-firm mattress.  In my mind I'm laughing and helping you, taking your sock off and kissing your face.  Bringing you water and twirling your hair between my fingers, taking your glasses off and folding them up safe on your bedside table.  But here we are, separated by the walls surrounding us, the miles we've put between us.  I'm alone again tonight, wondering if I'll hear the words I've wanted to hear for so long, knowing full well the silence will stick and the morning will come again too soon.  Thinking about waking up to you, smoking a cigarette out the window because you know how much it bothers me when people smoke inside.  Brewing coffee but it probably tastes like shit, light streaming in from every direction and forcing my eyes closed again.  The shadows your blinds make when you close them halfway, like they made that night, I'm there.  Behind too-big sunglasses and a hangover ponytail, I smile for no reason on my walk to work, and I know you're here.