I cannot stop writing for you.
Even when it isn’t spat across the internet
but scribbled onto pages I can’t find again,
it is for you. It is always and unequivocally,
written to be read.
I am myself, alone so often and happy
to be, freely me. But I want you to learn
sometimes, how I ache to talk to you.
How a stranger miles away nonchalantly
clicking a button, index finger poised,
can make me whole again.