a letter lost on him.

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.