It is twenty-three minutes past eleven. She should be home soon. I glance at my iPhone screen every few seconds, willing it to vibrate with the distinct sound of a heartbeat so that I know it’s her. That moment does not come.

My mind drifts into a fabricated realm, where the passage of time is irrelevant. A mixture of memories, day dreams, and premonitions sort of boil together before it simmers, and elicits the familiar scent of a goodbye.

I am in love with a thought. A thought that has been melted, welded and shaped into the most desirable girl. Yet she is an illusion, and lives merely in my phone screen. And although the greater part of my conscience realizes this distinction, my headstrong attitude prevails.

So here I am.

It is a half hour to midnight. She must be home now. Yet my iPhone remains dark and silent. I sigh.

There is a tragic edge to sustaining this much hope and expectation for a face that will never change. And as the May rain hits the deck of the patio, I smile. This situation feels all too familiar.

Yet I perpetuate this cycle.

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