I'm enjoying my trip. Truly, despite my ramblings about the cold. I quite like it. It's just perpetual air con at about 5 degrees.
But
When my pace slows down and the rooms turn quiet; when I'm high from my drinks (mixes are for sissys, I'm all for on the rocks), when I'm on my bed shivering, I wear your shirt and the socks you gave me and wished, just wished,
that you are here, rubbing my hands to keep me warm. And I'd be lying on your chest telling you about my day and whine about the miles I've walked, the funny people I've seen today, the stupid things I did. While you rub the left and right of my hands alternatively cos your other arm is around my shoulders.
Even though it doesn't help much. No, it helps a lot, actually.
I wish I don't believe in wishes.
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