I'm missing you.
In a bar full of people, on a rainy night in this busy town, I sit alone at a table and wonder what you are doing. My drink has been half empty for the longest time. I don't want to finish it because I don't want to leave. I want you to be beside me, your face alight with some adventure you've just had, your arms moving reliving the exciting parts. Your dark hair falling in your face and your honey coloured eyes, dancing.
I miss you. Various drunks keep trying to chat me up, even though they know me and they know you and they know I usually come in here with you.
I could go home, but the house is so empty. The dog is with you, which I don't mind, I know how much he loves the trips, but it helps to see his face when I walk in the door.
Are you thinking of me? Are you wondering what I am doing, or are you too busy somewhere deep and dark, doing that thing you do so well.
I try not to worry, I know you'll come home and be just fine with maybe an extra scar or two. But I wonder if one day, I'll just carry on sitting here, waiting for a man who never comes, a man who has shown me a world full of danger and excitement the likes I'd never dreamt of.
The room is warm and the faces familiar, it smells of ale and roast goat. Shall I go home and sit by your bed and wait for you? Wait for the door to open and the sound of weapons stacked and armour dropped, the dog climbing the stairs ahead of you and pushing his wet nose into my hand.
And you will arrive and fall exhausted on to the bed. I will join you and sometime later we will awake feeling a lover's comfort and you will call me your mountain flower, your blessing, your love, your Lydia.