She doesn't write to me anymore.Possibly she's waiting for the silence to get over.Possibly she's tired of using thesareus and type.
Maybe,She's tired to type and describe when all she wanted was to rest her fingers on my waiting chest.
Maybe,she never wanted to write letters when her lips were dry and wanting.
And yet Possibly,Maybe are all I have to describe her unknown and unfinished silences.
I wanted to tell her how my bed was growing white and hesitating,every day....