Penelope, twenty years away from you I forget the little things. The toss of your head, the tumble of your breasts as you disrobe. I wake up with a fire in my belly and an ache in my loins. And always, always this perfect thirst.

“I miss you,” you say. “I miss you, and I’m sick of it.” A war that lasted ten years and coming home that feels like another war. I love you. I love you and I’m sick of it.

Leave a light on in Ithaca, Penelope. Don’t I always come back for you?