as it'is... inside out.

He doesn't kiss me, doesn't hold gently by the hand. Doesn't iron on a head, doesn't pass fingers in my hair. Doesn't call to me at night, doesn't ask how I feel. don't write to me each five minutes "I miss". But for him I want to live so much.
He is probably far away. For thousands kilometres from here.
And these minutes I hate any who can call to him and ask "how are you doing?" (c)