As we both try to catch the last drop of warmth from every single word, we still go to bed, each to our own, and make love to the cold loneliness, whether there’s someone laying next to us or not.
I look at the screen of the phone, the same screen that shows me directions, tells me the weather and reminds me about my appointments, and for some reason I try to feel the warmth from the same faceless screen when its your letters appearing on it.
I’m desperately trying to fill in so much of the missing pieces as I read your messages. I try to imagine your face, guess whether you were smiling when you typed those words, try to feel the warmth of your hands, hope to feel your breath on my skin.
Maybe I’m addicted to the pain, the distance, the desire of the impossible.