Love, I could have told you all the words you wanted to hear. You only had to feel the warmth of my fingertips on the back of your ear and the flutter of my eyelashes on every inch of your cheek. You only had to listen for the beats my heart skipped every time you took my hand and the prayers I whispered to the night.

You need never ask.

Dearest, have you seen the city from the night sky, with the avenues like the veins of your hands, lit up by lined up cars rushing to their houses; the riverbanks parted ever so slightly like your lips; and the streetlamps reflecting the river twinkling like your brown eyes? To you, I may have been just another face pressed against the foggy window; to me, you were home.

Someone, somewhere, is dreaming of you; of running her fingers along the nape of your neck; of curling up inside your rib cage and carving her name in your bones; and she wonders how you couldn’t have known then:

Someone, somewhere, is waiting for you.

I always hesitated whenever I had to say your name. I had a fear that everyone could hear how lovingly, or hurtfully—I’m not sure anymore, I don’t think it even mattered—I said it; everyone but myself. So then I only had the courage to mumble it out, tumbling its way over my tongue, through my teeth, and between my barely-parted lips. I hope you understood why I couldn’t say your name. It was always just at the tip of my tongue.

This is not a love letter.

I cannot stand lying close to someone,
with as little layers between us, I cannot;
a little closer, and you might hear
my tell-tale heart.

I cannot stand being held that close—
that close, and you might find
what was left of the words
of love carved on my spine.

I cannot stand to feel anyone’s skull
against my cheek—
I cannot
let anyone else

come close.