you once told me you laugh
at the misguided
because they remind you so much
of yourself.

i just hope
you remember
that a broken match
can still spark a flame.

all i could see was:
you,
your cigarette,
the moon;
and as i came closer,
you.

you touched me in ways
that made me feel alive.

even though it was
killing me,
i was dying to know.

you were itching to leave,
and we were burning up.

it was all turning to smoke;
it was suffocating.

i’m still trying to catch my

breath.

the amount of space
between two things,
two beings,
it doesn’t exist:

a collective protest
against what’s real.

what is real
is you,
and me.

what’s between us?
not plane tickets
and train rides.

it’s just the ache of
not being able to find you
in your expected place,
right next to me.

there’s no measurements
between us.

i can always reach you,
faster than anything,
and it’s free,
and i will always give it to
you.

and you
don’t even have to ask,
because you deserve it.

we deserve to be.