It's the high level of anticipation, the waiting all the time, even in the busiest of moments, of seeing you again soon. Every moment is an agony, a twisted myriad of fantasies, equally as dark as they are happy. It's a smile in the darkness of a bedroom at night. It's a pinnacle of light during a series of unrelenting boring days. It comes.
It arrives. And you're not there. It's a hole in the place where there used to be a heart.