I have written a text to you seven times, maybe it’s more like a fully fragmented novel consisting of over one thousand letters. Not one time did I beg for you back, I just begged you to remember the times I held you instead of you holding me. I asked you to scroll back through the times I beckoned you to me, the times I tied your shoe strings together to have you fall for me. I always wanted you to stay warm for me. You pulled away from my heart from the very beginning and out of all of that I just wanted you to feel less alone at night. I wanted you to strip your skin dry of its heavy self-consciousness and kiss the freckles that covered you inch by inch. Because I couldn’t do those things this far away. My scent never lingered where you were for very long, I knew that. But I didn’t want to change it, I didn’t spritz the air with my trademarks, I didn’t want you to realize I was gone. Sometimes that really worked, but it never worked for me. You’re even further now, it happens constantly with us. But us having a constant? That’s the most beautiful thing, and I’m keeping with it.