Tonight I drank half a bottle of vodka, and thought about what lies between the gaps – of the things we say and that which we cannot.

We do not always say goodnight, but in the gap I think of you – drunken, distant, from afar.

With clumsy hands I draw your face to remember, a time that we could be together.

And as the gaps grow, and the distance stretches on, I think about all that goes unsaid.

Like I love you. Like I miss you. Like I wish I could lie beside you – that ‘goodnight’ was just a sweet afterthought, muttered under a half-breath, instead of a gap I’ll slip through until the morning.

And when I wake I’ll be sober, but the feelings will remain. A hollow space inside me, that I can’t seem to share.

When you ask me how my day is, I’ll tell you it’s all okay. But I’ll think of you and wish you’d read between the lines, to find the pauses in the conversation, the gaps in what goes unsaid – and remind me that you’re there, waiting on the other side of the ellipsis.