I chat with you almost every day, but I still want to write to you. Isn’t it peculiar? Isn’t it peculiar that your mornings are my evenings and your nights are my days? The distance to you is mind-numbing, yet you are the one I have the shortest distance to. The one easiest to call.

My kingdom lies in the useless details that you tell me. You standing in line at the grocery store checkout. You waiting for the laundry to be done. You going off to pay your taxes. You in your car on the way home from work. (Don’t text me then, though. Please keep your attention on the road.)

Yet, I prefer speaking to you during your night, when your work has made you almost shitfaced from exhaustion and frustration. Somehow there is space for me there. I prefer when you send those last, jumbled words to me and drift off into sleep even though you’re thousands of miles away. I prefer it to your days and my evenings, because then you belong to someone else. Reality. Sunshine. Family. Those are my natural enemies.

Not that I would ever tell you that.

Not that I would ever tell you that, or I’d become a spirit that you’d have to vanquish. A ghost of the past. How very Dickens-like. And I never was the type of woman to compete and manipulate anyway.