I got invited out to a bar tonight, but I didn’t go.

I can’t stop thinking of your messages. I read them in your voice, you know, can recall perfectly how you stress syllables or form vowels. My conscience sounds like you now, and I wish my subconscious loved me as much as you do, spoke to me as sweetly or with similar concern.

I read somewhere that it’s okay to stick around for the little things; small things to look forward to. Like wanting to hear a favorite song again, or an upcoming film release. I look forward to your next message, the next time we talk.

I can’t imagine missing a single lilac heart.

Besides, it’s dangerous to mix icy roads and alcohol.