The scratch at the back of my throat
will not go away.
It aches, burns,
In the same way my chest aches,
my eyes burn.
I miss you.
I know we can call, I can hear your voice
on the other end of the phone line,
tired, gentle, soft, but still distant.
As though it were a thousand miles
instead of a hundred.
Our words are muted, conversations short.
Full of "I love you"s, "Please don't worry"s, and (I'm afraid overly) hopeful "I'll see you soon"s.
But somehow, the voice doesn't seems like yours.
I've always equated your voice with your touch, I suppose.
It's strange for them to be separated.
I expect your chest against my back, your hand to caress mine.
But it's still that little light- the tiny candle we hold for each other.
The candle of hope. Lit with the flame of love.