excerpt from an october letter that should have been destroyed, but only yet hasn't

. . . do i dream of you
of what you look like beneath your clothes
or how it might feel to hold your hand
feel the rush of your skin against mine
across a table
filled with late night cold and bitter coffee
and the rustle of conversation
a constant background commotion to our voices
that might still mean everything
and nothing
like these endless days do
the way your words wrap around mine
an endless sad embrace
that leaves me longing for the sound of your voice
and the way it might feel to touch you with any sense of significance
in a way you might remember
in a way i'd hope you'd never want to forget . . .

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