My mission, should I choose to accept it: Include a word of gibberish.
You conduct the orchestra that greets me when I watch you sideways over the cubicles. Your fingers stroke my heartstrings when you brush past; the soft whfft of your shirtsleeves whispers across my workspace.
Daily highlights are at 10:15 (morning break), 12:30 (lunch break), 3:10 (afternoon break). You’ll be there in the break room, coffee mug in hand, a loose grin parting the steam that fogs your glasses.
I try not to notice the band on your finger, but it drags my gaze downward like a millstone. She brings you lunch, kisses you goodbye.
The orchestra dies to numbing silence.