I like the wooden floor of your house, where I can walk bare feet feeling the weight of earth. The daylight comes through the backyard window and I can dance in a light dress, while cooking memories that never happened. My hands on your shoulders at the ball we've never been to, swinging our hips and stepping the ground where an uncountable number of kids have stepped to oblivion. The blood pumping into my veins, trying to warm my body all covered in bloody cold water. I curse in my fake Russian accent and your laugh makes my heart stop shivering. You close your eyes and complain about the heat. Both of you, with your fingers in the elastic of my shorts, making it difficult not to surrender and spill wet hair all over my pillows while moaning infinite affirmations of love. Tears make their course through my face. Why do I always end up crying over fake memories and movies that bring me to when I'm 38 and forgot to tell you I love you before going to bed? I write another email and sign sincerely yours and you won't care much, because your language don't appeal to the heart as mine does. We, world people, who speak in kisses, never got words that perfectly describe our goodbye hugs. I miss you. ❤