A City Without You

I'm a city girl.
I wake up to the sounds of traffic. From the honks of late employees to the chatter at the hallway of my neighbors passing.
I sip my coffee at my balcony. Staring at the emotionless passersby, thinking about their lives. Are they rich? Poor? In love? Happy? Broken? Whole?
I was about to get inside, but I saw you. You're smiling, slowly walking towards my building, hands on the strap of your favorite brown messenger bag. Looking around the block, the sky, the trees, the people.
I ran down the stairs to greet you, maybe even hug you. But you disappeared from the crowd. That's when the coffee kicked in.
I lied down our bed.

I missed you.
I miss waking up to this same bed, only smaller with you right beside me. The honks replaced by the stillness of the air, with your heartbeat calming as it is.
I miss sipping coffee at our balcony. Sitting on the railing, not afraid of falling, because your hand's around my waist. Talking about the running people outside, realizing we're both late for work as our alarm clock chimed in.

I have been a city girl.
All my life.
But the city felt different without you.
The sounds seem louder. They're odd. They're never quiet.
I realized they've always been there, I just didn't notice. Because I only hear your footsteps, your breathing, and your laugh.
Maybe if I asked you nicely, you'll take me with you.
Please, just take me with you.