It's 12:41 and my heart is racing, but it isn't because of the cold coffee I've gulped to suppress the calls of slumber.
My fingers are shaking, but it isn't because I've been bent over an essay, scrawling chicken scratch words
onto a paper that's blotted with ink and tears and misspellings.

It's because of you.

You and your bright eyes —bright  like the light reflecting off the moon — and your smell, sharp and sweet
like the taste of mint. It's 12:42 now, and as my clock blinks, all I can think of is your hands; your hands
and your arms and the curve between your collarbone and your neck that my head fits
​perfectly in when you held me tight. It's 12:42 and I miss you so powerfully  — so  deeply— that my entire being aches.
​
​12:43, and nothing will ever be the same.