[Rambler]
I write again—
  too many words,
  stacked like bricks

  in towers no one asked for.

[Reader]
I read each one,
  smiling quietly,
  wondering how…

  he still has something new to say?

[Rambler]
My messages pile up,
  like small confessions—
  poems,
  jokes,
  half-stories—

  a subtle chaos, waiting.

[Reader]
They fill the spaces
  between my days,
  moments stolen at work,

  scrolling quietly through his rambling lines.

[Rambler]
Sometimes, silence comes,
  and I worry—
  did she tire of my rambles?

  Did my words become noise?

[Reader]
Sometimes I pause,
  just to watch him squirm,
  loving the small tension—

  I imagine in his waiting.

[Rambler]
Every poem is a tether—
        pulling gently,

  hoping she reads deeper than the words I type.

[Reader]
Every word feels personal,
  a puzzle left just for me—
  does he realize…

  how clearly he speaks in these unspoken ways?

[Rambler]
I never know how much
  to hold back,
  how much truth

  can fit between line breaks and metaphors.

[Reader]
I never know how much
  to tell him,
  how his rambles settle softly,

  changing the shape of my days.

[Rambler & Reader]
And yet, we continue:
  words stacking,
  lines scrolling,
  rambles written,
  messages read—

[Rambler]
“Because there's always more to say.”

[Reader]
”Because there's always more I want to hear.”