(A love letter written across impossible distances – where longing invents new worlds just to be heard.)
I write to you from the other side of the moon,
where the air tastes faintly of oranges
and the clocks run on the pulse of the tide.
Here, shadows arrive before their owners,
and the wind carries rumours
of cities that never existed.
I keep your name folded in my pocket
like a map to a place
I will never find twice.
Some nights, the stars lean closer,
as if they’ve heard of you –
as if they want to know
what it means to miss someone
so much
you start inventing new worlds
just to send them letters.