Between calls I keep planning how I'll kiss your neck when I get home.

I’m sorry I didn’t bring the pastry you like from the airport café.

Sorry I didn’t say sorry sooner; I should’ve stepped away from the press area.

I’m sorry I forgot to send the photo you wanted of the meeting room.

I’m sorry I missed your text about picking up milk; that was careless.

Sorry I didn’t reschedule the call to a quieter corner of the hall.

Sorry I forgot to bring the book you mentioned from the hotel lobby.

Sorry I didn’t tell you I’d be delayed because my meeting ran long.

I’m sorry I left you a short voicemail instead of talking properly.

Sorry I missed saying I love you before the plane doors closed.

I’m sorry I checked work emails during our video call and it showed.

Sorry I didn’t notice your message about the kettle until this morning.

I’m sorry I promised to order room service and didn’t follow through.

Sorry I was curt in that email I sent while standing at the gate.

I’m sorry I let the work call take priority over our agreed call time.

Sorry I forgot to pick up the postcard you wanted from the venue shop.

I’m sorry I brushed off your question about the kids when I was boarding.

Sorry I left the charger unplugged at the hotel and cut our call short.

I’m sorry I missed your joke in that group chat; I wasn’t focusing.

I’m sorry I sounded distracted during our text, I should have paid attention.

Sorry I promised to send the photo of the conference badge and forgot.

Sorry I didn’t ask how your day was before jumping into work updates.

I’m sorry I left my headphones in the hotel room and missed your voicemail.

Sorry I snapped about the suitcase; I was tired and that’s on me.

I’m sorry the meeting ran late and I couldn’t make dinner with you.

I’m sorry I missed your message in the airport lounge, I should’ve replied sooner.

I keep replaying your whispered question from the sofa and it makes me restless.

Your laugh stuck in my ear is a slow burn I can't shake off.

I want the low, deliberate way you say my nickname when no one's near.

Your scent on the pillow is a low, persistent wanting I didn't invite.

My day narrows down to the moment I can lean into you again.

The memory of your scarf left on my chair has become my current obsession.

I keep imagining your laugh right behind me and it tightens everything.

My mind keeps going back to the scratch on your knuckle from last week.

That chipped mug you use is the image I scroll to between meetings.

If you get an upgrade, claim it for me when I'm back.

If the meeting runs over, consider it a rehearsal for our overtime.

Tell them you shelved the extra work; I have other shelves to test.

If the conference badge gets sticky, peel it off slowly and think of me.

I put a ribbon on that scrubbed hotel soap; it's actually a hint.