Unsure of myself, I jot down a few words and then stop. I scratch them out and instead listen to the angry crows screaming at each other from the trees across the street. A waning summer at the hands of the turning. Time is a sweet and merciless thing. My coffee is cold and my hair is a mess. The house is empty but there are creaks in the walls coming from somewhere downstairs. The sound of the clock is soft and deafening. It’s only been a few days but the lines of the time between us stretch all the way to the stars and back. They come back, do you see what I mean. Patience is a virtue. Patience is the way I wait for you in dim paled light like a shadow. Like a secret. Like torture. I miss you in places I never knew existed inside me until they began to ache.