Unsent

I write you letters in my head on the bus, in the shower, in the three seconds between turning off the lamp and the dark arriving. Dear you, today I saw a man carrying a fern on the subway and it looked so absurd and so gentle that I almost called you, because you were always the person I called when the world did something that couldn't wait. Dear you, I've stopped ordering for two. The menu asks how many and I don't know what to say to a question like that anymore. Dear you, it's Tuesday. Nobody cares about this except the two of us, and one of us has stopped counting. None of these letters have endings. That's the problem, isn't it? Neither did we.