My hand hovers over the blank sheet of my notebook—the new one with the yellow cover and only four pages of scribbled poems and half a paragraph of my last story, where a teenager was trying on seductive Halloween costumes after skipping school—and I ponder what to write about.

I think of you, wonder where you are. You’re probably in your three-bedroom apartment on J-street, top floor, where you’ve dragged the sixty-four inch flat screen next to your bed after a fight with your roommate. Maybe you’re leaned up against that faded brown beanbag, that godforsaken grey quilt from your ex-girlfriend tucked around your legs, video game console in hand. You’re relaxed, a bag of whole-wheat chips on the floor next to you for a snack—you’ll deny later, when I ask what happened to the hummus—you’ll keep on pretending it’s disgusting, just to save face. Maybe your shirt will be off, gym shoes tossed by the front door, radio and television on.

I want to write the words I cannot tell you: How sometimes, when I know you’re sleeping hard, I trace the lines of your tattoos, run my hand down your spine. Or that when I shower after you, I splash your body wash across my chest and arms, just to hold that smell of you.

I’m sure you’re not thinking of me now, or maybe you are, stretching from your cocoon, sneaking stealthily across the kitchen to return my garlic roast hummus just as it was before. I’ll see you soon, fall into the tiny space between bean bag and mattress, under that damn quilt I swear one day I’m going to accidentally misplace.

But in the meantime, love, you’ll fill up pages.

I’ll see you soon.