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.