Essay: Only time will tell

January is harder this year than it's ever been before. On top of the cold dark days, planned events that offered glimmers of hope have been cancelled, and we must remain at home wherever possible. Every slice of joy that had been keeping me going through the end of 2020 now seems to have vanished.

My body aches for you. I long for your touch in a way that surprises me; after all, our conversation is so deeply satisfying that I'd hoped it would be enough for now. I try to distract myself by using fingers and toys while I think of you, imagining all the things I'd like us to do together when we finally get to meet.

I try to fool myself into thinking that you are in another country, far far away, but this is nonsense as I know that it's only four hundred miles and under normal circumstances your touch would be easily accessible. A few hours on a train, or less if I opted for air travel, and I would be in your arms. In your bed.

But we are not allowed these pleasures right now. Will our desire have increased by the time we get to feel skin on skin, or will it fade so much in the coming months that we never even make the plans needed to feel the warmth of each other's bodies? I do hope it's the former, but only time will tell.