She doesn't need to know—
    but that never stopped me before.

I'm on the balance board again. (Does she care?)

Shadrack Band's last show tonight,
     bittersweet notes in the air. (Did she ask?)

Finally cooking those steaks,
     those ones I won't stop mentioning. (Will she ever taste one?)

Typing has become breathing—
                   constant,
                 effortless,

   a quiet rhythm she doesn't realize she's setting.

Every thought recorded,
   every mundane moment
   turned into breaking news,

   streaming live to an audience of one,
   who might not be tuned in. (but I broadcast anyway)

Because somehow—
   every word I type
   feels like she's closer,

   each trivial detail pulling her near,
   a connection stretching across miles,
                        through screens…

   into a reality we've built one word at a time.

So—
   I'll keep typing,
        keep broadcasting,
        keep pretending she's listening—

Because even if she's not reading—
   writing to her…
                  feels like she's right here.