Seven days ramble-free.

But my head wasn't quiet—

I wrote you lines
  behind my eyes,
  sent texts I didn't type,
  crafted stories I didn't say,

  stacked neatly, waiting for a make-up text.

Here it is—
     unhurried,
     gently disheveled,
     smelling vaguely of coffee

     and dreams from aisle three.

A week slipped past,
       unintentional—
       just meetings and miles

       and too many open tabs.

But you were always open,
    like the draft I kept editing,

    never quite sending.

We may skip days,
   but never each other.

And every make-up text
    feels just like the first.

No timestamp can undo us.

You read between the silences
    like no one else ever has.