they left each other notes, in the strangest of places. 
'i'll be late,' on the front door.
'your mother needs you,' in between pages.
'don't leave without breakfast,' by the bedside.

ultimately, it was a sort of conversation, between absences and miles.

he remembered the first time he left her at the airport. as they kissed in the car, he felt his skin burn for her; and then, briefly, relief.
on the way home, that early morning, he had stopped by a roadside stall, to pick up some cigarettes. he felt vaguely guilty, as he saw the edge glow orange while the trees passed by.
she hated the smoke. so, for that matter, did he.
as the door clicked shut, he felt the dust on his fingertips. and as the warm water flowed onto his skin, his hands, his hair, he caught a glimpse of the mirror.
'miss me,' it said, in faint outlines, on the fogged glass. 

he was glad when she returned. he didn't like to be left alone with himself, for too long.

somewhere, behind the last bag of sugar in the kitchen, is a piece of yellowing, now parched, notebook paper.
'i will leave you,' it says.

- write to me -