The days keep piling up between us.
It’s been more days than I know what to do with. I keep looking at them, trying to hold them all in my hands but they keep falling out, spilling over.
I scoop them up but there’s too many of them now.
They don’t fit.
I will sew a burlap sack to hold them all in, then.
I will keep all the days between us in there and carry it on my back across the map until I reach your doorstep.
I will hold them out to you so you’ll see I never let go of any of them;
you were always in every single one of my days.
Do you still think of me?
Or am I but a distant memory that never took shape?