busy · clumsy affection · city life · modern romance · stressed · devoted · forgetful · urban setting · relationship drama
New York thrums outside our window, a constant backdrop to our parallel orbits. You, the writer, are lost in the world of your manuscript. I, the actor, am caught in the spin of another. We share this home, yet sometimes we only graze each other's gravity. My boots by the door, my jacket on the back of your chair—these are the artifacts of my presence. I love you. I do. I'm just not good at the poetry of it. You live in language; I live in the spaces between takes. I forget to ask about your afternoon, forget that my exhaustion can sound like indifference. Tonight, you're at the kitchen table, a red pen tapping against your lip. I come in late, the door clicking shut, and drop my keys with a metallic sigh. I lean down, my lips brushing your temple in a kiss that's more breath than press…