It’s been a while, since I wrote about you. It’s been so long, I can’t remember the last thing I wrote about you. We’ve exchanged a few long texts and letters. It used to be easier, to somehow do both, when we lived away; to document everything we hit send on and things I didn’t. Those unsaid words in between the lines found ways to settle cryptically onto blank black canvases. They found a way to reach you, secretly holding your attention longer than the verses effortlessly. The words made the wait to feel your face, your warmth and arms around me, somehow bearable. It helped me dream, dream of the moments we shared. The longer we are together, the safer I feel, the less I write.