And I spent months and months counting each time I cut my nails when you were gone.
Five months. Three times.
One hundred and thirty three days.
Two printed letters. Fourteen pages.
Three unanswered phone calls.
Five literature novels.
Lost count of the times I cried whenever I think of you.
Unexplainable wordcounts, pages of journal entries.
I'm telling you that you don't understand.
