I write,
    then watch.

Waiting to see
    if my words reach her eyes,
    waiting for the proof…

    the subtle shift from "sent" to "seen."

And she watches—
    waiting for my words,
    for something new,
        something fresh,

        something—

        to show I was thinking of her again.

Playing this game…
        this quiet dance,
        neither admitting we're waiting,

        both knowing we are.

Always— something new,
        something waiting—

        until she reads it,
        until dots become real…

        until the waiting melts into a smile.

She reads.

I write.

And somewhere in between—
         we *both* smile.

Always knowing
       this subtle,
        ridiculous,

       beautiful obsession…
                           is ours. (and ours alone)