Those midnight talks, the rest stealers, the warmth givers, they’re fine and meaningful most of the times. You’ll notice how few are the people you talk to after decent hours. The ones with whom lines shared in a chat window are worth more than hours of restful blackness.
Feelings tend to develop in these late hours, it’s true, if you let them stay and dream for you until the morning after. You’ve grown to be used to this habitual dead time every night, a time that is sometimes short and stained with procrastination, but yet the absence of her words itches now, and why?
You say something bare of sense, send a pic of your caloric pre-bed snack, ask her what is she up to. Not much surely. She is free enough to say a few words though, then sentences rain and the irregular flash of a notification shines upon your restless smily expression, as you glimpse at the now black still waiting screen, silently longing for that tri-toned bleep. It fulfills you to be replied, is surprising the notion of being at ease with her, this one person and not other, she is special. It’s crazily beautiful to need her sleepy whispered texts so you may then happily fall sleep.
A silvery beep, like a drop of an irony fluid. A monotonous tone almost warning you for the dreadful perks of falling for someone. But still you promptly answer, you’re hers for tonight. Is she into you? Maybe, otherwise would she be fueling this late night chat? After all she is trading sleep for a few words of yours, and she doesn’t seem to mind at all. You can feel it. And you may or may not be fooling yourself, who knows? You’ll see for yourself one day, but in the meantime don’t get too attached, I would recomend. But sobriety is so hard in situations like these, that I know.
Talking at night holds a more intimate sensation, the day is for everyone, is public, but the night, oh the dark gives you the privacy to be intimate, and the distance, she is an excuse for what is said and meant that wouldn’t be if the two of you were standing face to face, with trembling eyes that would shy away and be merely friendly. And I’m not saying that a relationship is built on things said from afar, but meanings and feelings can be sent through swift taps on a keyboard. They cannot be looked in the eyes, those feelings, but they reach us, for we’re not deaf nor blind and if we were, we’d still sense it somehow, I believe.
Through the sentences you type I hear the voice I so well know.
Through a yellow swollen smile I see your own joyful beam.
From my gloomy room I imagine you know how your words sting me, for I become so forgetful of anything else when I read you. I’m liking this way of rejoicing with words, and I actually thought I’d never feel this way again. But do I really want to?
Am I ready to allow someone else’s silence to kill me again, someday?
I don’t know, you tell me, if it’s still not too late for you!