What you are doing today is something I'll never see.

Small parts of me crave small parts of you. Your day in photographs sent in the mail. Over a few small wires and through satellites. Ours is a romance in space that you call lyrical when I ask why it is so hard to touch you after months of not touching you, or anyone I can recall.

The last time, I shook my way toward your door. It was difficult to drive. And you laughed at me for holding everything inside my body, when I so willingly send myself daily through space so you can see.