Everything between you and I can be explained through lines. Thin traces, tethered strings. Tied too tight, pulling, though in the wrong direction. We’ve intersected, and now it’s all space (the absence, the stenciled remains, the conversations we could’ve had) and lines compressed and flattened through the internet every few hours. Already you’re onto the weather.
We’re not so much parallel as we’re not running the same course, but we both know where this is going. Nowhere. I know it’s going to happen, I know that the oceans and the day that must happen once before you experience it are too far a stretch. It’s only a matter of time before the words dwindle altogether. And I dread it. I’d rather we had sliced our lines quickly, almost painlessly. Smooth edges, clean cut. Instead, it’s a slow, anxious wait for us to unwind and eventually regard each other with an awkward, perfunctory ‘hello how are you?’ and a faint sadness.

How much more poigant you are when you’re out of reach.


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