I just found out that it's 749 miles to get to you. And I'm sick of welcoming the new year in alone. Home feels more right now than it ever has before, but it's still hard when I think about making sausages in our small, slovenly kitchen. I just want to go to a time where I'm not afraid to miss you so much, but I have a lot to do before that—so do you.
Soon it will be 7,147 miles to find you and there will be a continent between us. I don't regret it, but the distance will still sting.
I don't care if you read this and I don't care if you think I'm lame for writing it. All I can do is put this down and make it enough.
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