A Letter To My Lover

I been thinking about you again.

Not in some sweet, storybook way either—don’t
get flattered. It’s just… every time I light a cigarette, I swear the smoke
moves like your fingers did on my back, slow and sure, like you were tracing
out a map you already knew by heart. I hate that I remember things like that.
Makes me feel soft, and you know I don’t do soft unless I mean it.

I keep telling myself I’m busy—cases piling up,
phone ringing, someone always lying to my face. But there you are anyway. Like
a song stuck on repeat. Like trouble I asked for on purpose.

And I did.

I remember the way you looked at me—like you
weren’t afraid of the parts of me I don’t show polite company. Like you already
saw the sharp edges and decided to grab on anyway. That’s rare. Most people
want the lipstick and the smirk. You wanted the quiet part. The part that keeps
the lights on at 3 AM and stares at the ceiling like it owes me answers.

Don’t get me wrong—I ain’t writing you some
love letter. I’m just telling the truth.

I miss the way you said my name.

Not the fast one. Not the one said between
gasps and laughter and sheets on the floor. The other one. The soft one. The
one nobody else gets because nobody else earned it.

I’ll be around.
Don’t call unless you mean it.

 
Jessi ❤️