Between the lines

I imagine you calling my name,

kissing me quite insane.

So I re read your postcard again.

Wondering if i skipped a line,

which was written maybe to imply.

All what remains unsaid and between the lines.

I sit to pen down a reply,

pouring my heart and promising to get by.

But in spite of all, I end up writing how the weather seems fine.

Because what all is being unsaid,

is not necessarily unfelt.

And so my hopes and imaginations choose to stay in between the lines.