It started as letters,
        messages sent,
        thoughts left—

        in the open for her to find.

But then, it became more.

Now, ink spills daily.

First onto paper,
   then…
   into this *space*
         between us,

   where words stretch,
   where thoughts breathe,

   where she lingers even in silence.

Some days,
     the words come easy—
     rushing like waves,

     like they were waiting for release.

Other days,
   there’s nothing really…
   (nothing urgent, nothing new.)

No grand event,
   no revelation—

   nothing we haven't already typed.

Just the same steady pull,
     the same quiet ache,
     the same need to put
         something down,
         to mark the day,

     to keep the thread unbroken.

And maybe that’s it.

Maybe this isn’t just writing.

Maybe it’s proof.

A record.

A ritual.

Ink splashed across the napkin,
                    the page,
                    the screen—

    a feeble attempt to cover the distance.

A way of saying:

  "You were on my mind today, too."