I love your eyes, the light in them when you look at me. You were gentle, soft. Your voice was a balm for my aching soul Your words, a snack for my starving heart. God, I miss that, the time when words still meant something. When time wasn’t a luxury, but a gift, willingly offered. Because how is someone loved, yet still begging for attention? It’s like a farmer, starving in the fields. Why would a chef eat scraps? When would commitment feel like a promise, and not a word thrown away?