I don't know
How quickly
This distance is closing
Between you and me
Sometimes I imagine myself
Following a line of string
Through a forest of densely knit trees
Weaving slowly 'neath the bending eaves
And hoping that I will soon come into a clearing
Where you are all I see
Holding the end of this bright red string
And that it would be that easy
But sadly it's not
I'm afraid I'm merely lost
Finding signs where there are none
Maybe you'll just grow tired and come find me
Sitting under a tree writing piles of romantic poetry
Just twiddling my thumbs
Which is just as likely.