Sometimes I wish
we lived in a different century,
a different era,
so when you had to go away
I could write you letters.

Letters,
a whole stack,
with penmanship so quaint
and words so fancy,
you would not be able to stop
marvelling at their beauty.
(I imagine)
You would spend hours on end
unravelling the secret longing
behind every blithe sentence,
every playful word.

And while absent-mindedly stroking
the dried ink on the parchment
as if it were my skin,
you would miss me so infinitely much
that without wasting another second,
you would hurry back home
to me.