I miss him,
I do, but not in the
way he misses me.
I miss his laugh when I say
something clever
and his compliments of my mind.
I miss feeling like my words
matter, whether spoken in
the soft light of morning,
or written on a page.
I miss him like a solider
misses the letters his wife
sent him after they're lost in
the rain.
He's right here,
right in front of me,
but so far away.
Maybe if I send him a letter,
he'll read it.
See me for who I am - his.
Or maybe like the words
pouring out of me,
they'll be lost on him
like I am.
Maybe he'll read them, or
maybe he won't.
Maybe he'll write back,
or maybe I'll have to kill
off the main heroine.
Maybe then he'll finish reading.
