Distance and hope are two old cell mates that have long stopped fighting for the top bunk. They settle into each others charm as I think of you nightly. As my voice tries to break the night to spew sunrise for its spine and my shoulders learn to catch tears over the phone.
Our Faith is in the Palm of an arm too long to see the face. Our breaths are daily sacrifices, but each kiss is a protest, Each three hour train ride is a war against heaven and a riot against hell demanding paradise, nothing but crepes, Netflix and winter. With swords made of Friday nights and shields of Saturday mornings, time is nothing but a prisoner of war.
But for those Mondays when I’m too far to reach, but my scent hasn’t left your pillow and there’s still brown hair in my black, let this poem be the cloud of hope and dandelion seeds, keeping you afloat till you find fertile ground, till you find me again.
If I have learnt anything from you it’s that for trees to grow the earth must break, so we know that not every trial is a test, but every test is a brick and every wall that we build is another reason to slow dance to an orchestra of ringing phones and text message alerts.
My love
For when I cannot hold your hand
For when I cannot wipe your tears
For when you and the moon cower under the blanket of cotton and cloud
For when your heart is breaking, know that I will sip through the cracks like glue and hold you together, I will whisper your name under my breath, for what is the wind but the breath of lovers too far to reach.
So I love you like I love the pen, beautiful and true.
And I miss you like oxygen to two sinking lungs, more and more with every breath.