Well, dear forgive me. You know, don’t you, the words are so much harder to make, and now, it’s very late. If I start unspooling all the knots and crannies with words, I’ll run out of brain before I can get us anywhere close to what I need to say. Before I turn into a pumpkin.
Oh, honey. Why do we wait? Isn’t that the message ripening in this silence? If there is magic now, in the light through the window, in simply being closer, what else is there to trade for?
I will be here tomorrow, hon. Sleep tight.