Tonight I’m kept awake by the memory of his earlobes and the way they’d flush a deeper shade of crimson with the onset of mirth. I think about kissing them, stroking them with an index finger, disturbing them with my murmurs. When he slept atop flannelette sheets, his earlobes were the first to grow white hot. I haven’t forgotten their softness on October 31st or how my pinching was the catalyst for a smile bright as a meadowlark’s breast. And now, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to possess even the tiniest sliver of him. 399 days is a long time to yearn for somebody, isn’t it?