I want you in every season of me,
at each height, at every breaking.
You are my quiet,
the one who understands the language
I don’t say out loud.
Seven thousand miles is a cruel number.
yet you live in the smallest minutes,
in the steam rising from evening tea,
in the empty chair across from me,
in the pauses between my thoughts.
I miss the ordinary most
the almost-arguments,
the unfinished sentences,
the comfort of simply being,
while the day softens…
like we were never apart.
Artwork by: Ngoc Van
