Hiding Place

Everybody still thinks you're off on the road trip to clear your mind, dear. I haven't told anybody where you really are, guessing you would want peace and quiet, to escape all the yammering idiots you work for.
It's only been a few weeks and already I miss having you here. The house seems empty, filled with your rat piles of clutter, yet oddly quiet. I can't get used to the way nothing changes here in the house when I'm here alone like this. I miss the clatter of your keyboard, the way you shuffle up the stairs like you're 900 years older than god.
I miss the morning coffee and nearly burnt toast with apple butter.
Your brother called the other day, wanted to swing by and drop off a few pumpkins. He's creeping me out, keeps asking how to get a hold of you. I really don't like him much.
I guess it's a good thing you didn't get that cell phone, or he'd be calling it, or even using it to find you. I know you don't want to be found.
You're in a very good hiding place, or at least I think so. It was our secret place, so romantic, the place where we first made love.
I hope we may be together again before too long. I miss you terribly, and wish we'd have had a better conversation last time we spoke.
Of course, by spring, your hiding place may not be so good, I'm thinking you may start getting pretty smelly, when things thaw out. Or the flies start hatching. But at least I know where to come when I want to talk to you.

"Painting and fucking a lot are not compatible; it weakens the brain,"
Vincent vanGaugh