You don't write to me anymore.

It's been a while
6 months
since you've rocked me to sleep
with the sound of your voice over the crackle of the telephone, talking about something new and exciting
the details all a whirl and getting lost in the abundant wordiness -

I
let myself get drawn in by that intake of breath, between the hiss of this and the tongue of that
To the time I
stayed up to see a lunar eclipse
and imagined your denim jacket hundreds of miles away
hugging your shoulders in winter
warming you when I could not.

Carry on, carry on.

I like to think we had something special.
It feels so far away now. Part of me will always want to rewind, out of pure nostalgia. For the way your place smelled, and the way your bedroom walls contained your energy, a vibration I can't quite explain. Once I opened your door and stood in the doorway, hands to my sides, and felt the power on my surface. Like you'd put some magic border up. It was safe, blue, like a blanket. Permeable like water. All shimmer and hum. It was sacred. And maybe I'm the only person who ever knew it was there.

One time I walked around your house. Opening all the drawers and searching through all the clothes. Not looking for anything in particular...maybe just looking to solve the mystery of you. Perhaps I believed if I could know all the things in this place, I could know you. I see how ambitious that sounds now.
I wonder all the same things girls wonder about a boy. Some are too selfish or shallow to be heard aloud. But I wonder if you miss me. If you think of me. And honestly, that's too terrifying to ask. It might change something. Or it might not. I can't deal with either.