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When you wake, the bed is smaller than usual, but warmer, too. You revel in a few stolen moments before alarm clocks and watch the sun rise over the water towers. It is spring. Yesterday in the park you squealed over budding blossoms, no longer tentative but bold, self-assured. The breeze smells different, the air cool velvet with rising frost: you live.

I left the warm embrace and walked to the west side, chilly but it, too, waking up. With the darkness behind me, I can see the buildings again, see the cobbled bits of city jumbled together in that way I so love. I haven’t seen you lately, I haven’t paid attention.

But here you are. And I will return if you’ll have me.