Puncture.

Talked to you the other day, actually heard your voice.

Exchange of greetings,
promise to keep in touch,
well wishes and small talk.

I miss us.

Every time we talk,
write,
share.

I remember what was.

Traded addresses this morning.
Returning those last few reminders.
Doors closed.

Deflated.

Alone.

The lingering death.
Slow seduction of solitude.
Oblivion in each awkward pause.
Silence, carefully considered.

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if it's possible that you miss me as much as I miss you.
If you want things back as much as I do.
If maybe, just maybe, we both don't know what to say...
So neither of us says anything.