I want to be home.  No, I want to wake up with The Boy and go out to that crappy diner where everything tastes vaguely of pizza.  I want to walk up and down the two blocks of “downtown,” sharing ice cream and holding hands.  I want to spend my afternoon with a cup of tea at his mother’s kitchen table, talking about anything and everything.  I want to fall asleep with my head over his heart, nestled under his arm in “my comfy spot.”

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