Can I tell you that I miss you like air?
I can only read what you write, hear the fragments of your voice, thin and hoarse.
Where are you?
Maybe by bicycle in a distant place, in the sunlight.
Perhaps near a canal in northern France.
I hear the sound of the pages turning, during your nap on the pillow.
Thinking of you has to be enough.
I can't even dream of you anymore.
Alone, waiting for you.
