you used to lie on my bed with me when i wrote on whatever was lying around
shoes or skin or broken heart strings not yet repaired
& you'd watch me. you'd watch how i formed my m's like half hearts & the way i held my pencil lovingly
[ yet not as lovingly as you. do i mean not as lovingly as i held you or not as lovingly as you held me

or does it really matter? ]

& the way i closed my eyes at the end of each sentence.

& then we'd kiss or go outside in the freezing cold or drink hot chocolate or look out of the window into the night sky or just lay down on my bed side by side, hand in hand.

that was before. the after is less memorable.

maybe soon, though, you'll look out of your window from your house
& i'll look out of my window from my house
& we'll find each other again without wishing upon plastic stars or 11:11s passed.




[ there's something so comforting about the fog that appears when you're breathing on the glass, because it means that you are still warm. ]