we loved in letters and postcards

Endless apologies and a “wish you were here.” They don’t make up for the absence of you, the sound of your voice or the smell of your skin, your touch.
Nothing can make up for the sleepless nights I spent wrapped up tight in the thought of your arms, silent conversations never had, kisses never stolen.
We send our love to be torn up because now it doesn’t mean as much, because paper is more perishable than the distance between us.

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