Every time I see a Map,
I look for your island.
Your lovely, rustic, historic island
The island which you shall escape
And I touch it,
As though,
To pluck you from the sky
And hold you close.
Five hundred fifty-seven kilometers
Is simply too far,
Even in peak route efficiency,
For me not to miss you.
I miss you
Albeit knowing
That mere inches of distance
Between you and me
Would not really make a difference