Your message at noon made my skin remember places only you know.

Your scent on the coat I borrowed has been tormenting me between calls.

I want to trace the line where your shirt ends and your skin begins.

Your shoelace coming undone this morning is the thing I can’t stop picturing.

I want the quiet of you undressing a problem from me with a look.

That little freckle by your collarbone has my attention more than it should.

Your laugh in the hallway at lunch rerouted my afternoon plans to you.

Your text at noon about the meeting made my hands go somewhere very different.

Tell me one thing that annoyed you today and I'll listen properly.

I keep replaying the way you fixed the radiator without asking for help.

I smiled when I saw your handwriting on the receipt in my coat pocket.

If you're still at your desk at five, I'll bring your favourite sandwich.

I love how you corrected my terrible directions without making me feel dumb.

Your dry comment in the meeting made me laugh out loud at my desk.

I kept your socks on the radiator like a ridiculous trophy this morning.

I love that you answered my rant without trying to fix it.

When your laptop pinged at lunch, my heart did a stupid little jump.

I keep checking the spot on the sofa where you always sit.

Seeing your text about the delayed train made me want to bring you soup.

I owe you a nap this evening — you looked exhausted this morning.

Your tired laugh after your meeting is what I want to remember tonight.

I miss your hands more than I thought I would when I'm opening jars.

This afternoon's coffee tasted better because I imagined you across the table.

I'm still holding on to the note you left me by the keys.

Reading your last message again made the rest of my day easier.

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.

That tiny gap between your front teeth appeared in my memory and I haven’t stopped smiling—and wanting.

I’m imagining your phone buzzing and you looking at me with that look that makes me forget words.

Your lipstick on the rim of your coffee cup this morning has stuck in my head.

I keep picturing the way you rest your chin on my shoulder when you’re tired and it’s dangerous.

Thinking of your jacket draped over my chair and how I want it—and you—on me.

I want the promise of your hands finding my waist when the elevator doors close.