Gone

The days are stretching on like weeks and the prospect of a month gone inflicts itself on me some nights. 

To wildly understate it all, I miss you.  It’s in everything I do and everything I think. 

I wrote you a couple more letters, but they’re laying against my chest in my pocket unmailed.  I don’t send them.  I don’t know why.  Maybe because that’s the last best proof needed that I really am that gone.  Real gone.

But I’ll be back.  For lots of reasons, though mostly for you.

And it will be strange and awkward.  I mean more than usual.  We are very dysfunctional people.

But I’ll have time to work on it.

Have you ever had a rifle named after you?