Assumptions are the termites

I have one big folder of screenshots,

several half typed messages,

In a phone, lying in my closet.

Typed with love,

backspaced with assumptions,

I never send you those,

simply because I thought you will never understand prose.

 

I said I love you and wanted to hear the same back too,

You never said those ,

I felt you liked flavors in your cone,

And I was vanilla.

 

Then I understood you were on war with words,

But you had your own ways of how you showed,

Like the way you never forgot to bring my favorite donuts,

like the way you intertwined your hand into mine when we crossed the path,

In the ways you heard my random poetries all through the night

you showed all that was love in the way I could never express with words.