High

Every Tuesday is like the come down. I can’t find anything good there as I lose the feeling of the weekend, of the boy, of the love. I find myself wishing to be napping and sleeping with him. His arms wrapped around me, covered in sheets, heavy sleep induced breathing. Each week I count the days, count the hours to when I can find myself there again in the sweltering that my weekends have become. Things should be easier, I shouldn’t put myself in these long distance situations but each year, each semester, there I am running into open arms so far away where I don’t have to think, where everything is done for me, where my hand is held and all I have to do is smile. Too easy but perfect. Lost and coming down I find my Tuesdays, lost and coming down off the drug that is love or the build up to love and as Thursday approaches my high once again ignites.