I am in a long distance relationship.
We trace the lines between
fingertips and empty air,
voices tangled through static,
echoes fading with each sigh.
You speak of roads I've never traveled,
cities I cannot see,
and though I nod and smile,
I linger somewhere far behind,
just beyond your words.
I send postcards scribbled
in half-truths and careful pauses,
counting the silence that waits
between each gentle phrase.
Nights spent mapping invisible space,
calculating miles that do not exist—
wondering how hearts,
in the same room,
could drift continents apart.
We say distance is temporary,
measured in hours, days, months—
yet this separation feels deeper
than any ocean, wider than
the longest road.
Only when you reach for my hand,
and your touch finds emptiness,
do we understand:
the miles were never the problem—
it was the silence between our hearts.
