It’s not the same when he writes me love notes, the words don’t have that southern accent I swoon over.
The sound of his voice, a warm hug on a cold night, can’t be captured in the curve of his o’s or the angles of his l’s.
His touch, tender as a summer breeze, caressed the paper, but not my skin. I don’t feel that shiver of anticipation holding a leaf of parchment as I do when he is holding my hand.
Pages are all I have now. Perfumed with his scent, his touch, his words, but still not him.