I forget sometimes that what I write here doesn't necessarily have to come with an explanation or an easy answer. Some days and some sentiments require me to take a deep breath and trust that what I say will be accepted for what it is, no more and no less, because I am as complex as my life and as simple as my love.

You are in the living room. I have a door closed between us; you are listening to the music I bought for you in Denver and I am wanting to listen to something else while I write. We are alike in our love of music but we differ in our expressions of it; if you love what I bought for you, then I have achieved my goal, even if I never listen to the entire album.

I was incredibly homesick without you.

It's the reason I fly away for a week every year. My mother might not understand and most of my friends probably think I'm nuts, but I treasure the week I spend 'away' just as much as I treasure the moment that I come home and know that I am truly home. Home is you, and that hug I have adored since I was a teenager. I go away because the process of leaving and the time spent alone shows me in such sharp, aching relief what it is that I have with you.

This is my life, and I am incredibly grateful.