I love you. I really do.

Your hands are cold.

Veinous. 

I hold them.

I want to say, once again, that I've missed you. So much.

But I'm too proud,

so I just smile instead.

In truth, 

not a day has passed by without me thinking of you.

Our cold wars, the brooding absence of text exchanges, or

quiet, blue ticks and one worded replies,

have made me wonder:

Why was I so angry? Why was I so petty?

I wish I had forgiven more easily. Sorry.

I want to say I love you,

and I don't care about 

your cracked fingernails.

You are beautiful to me. 

I'm sorry for

the criticism we hurled at each other.

I want to turn back time,

undo

the unsaid heartbreaks and sighs,

the way your arms lose fat and muscle,

the way everything is going wrong, oh so wrong.

Please stay. Oh please stay.

I love you.

I really do.