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a letter lost on him.

Updated: Apr 9

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.




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