Little details burn your throat. She likes her coffee black and her red converse without socks and she’s never danced in the rain, but she’s sung in the snow. All the small brushstrokes making up her whole you’ll never need to, never want to recall again.
Some night not far from this one, when there’s nothing to say and everything is rushing through the tunnels of your spinning head, all the eager exclamations you never let slip off your tongue, all the words you let lay on your teeth, will swarm through you, a blizzard of the memories you wish you had.
The covers will be tossed aside to stare at an empty phone screen, artificial light filling the bedroom as you read through all the words you wanted to send, all the letters you second guessed and scattered.
If you ever want to know someone, take a look through the Drafts folder.