From over five thousand to less than five: I feel like it’s safe to say that the physical distance has officially been closed, though I’m laughing at the irony that is my life, for so much has changed since I first dreamt of this moment, and I’m wondering if any other kind of closeness would ever possibly ensue (though very much ambiguous, I’m thinking no).
So much is different, and I’m only musing, entertained by how circumstance has been presented, how much of myself has been altered, how estranged I feel that I’ve taken myself so far for the sake of pursuing an idea.
I’m giddy at not knowing, enthralled by delicious obscurity, fused with throes of adrenaline at mere contemplation of potential reconciliation, though unperturbed wholeheartedly by the threat of rejection, because my heart is no longer in your hands.
It belongs to myself again; I scooped it up from off the floor after you let it go, and I’m empowered by the independence instilled within my own soul. I will not break my own heart.
But we are no longer five thousand miles apart—less than five, even, and five months ago that self that loved you so profoundly and desperately deserves some kind of closure, and this new, strong self I’ve constructed has enough conviction and determination to coddle the old one if things go awry. But this travel, since circumstance has changed so greatly lately, is no longer about you.
You are not my sun, nor my moon—merely a constellation that, were I to get distracted, I can lose sight of easily, can confuse your luminescent patterns with the chaotic translation of stars around you.
If you send me away, shove a ******* at my face, I’ll melt the cold chip with self-love and graciously enthrall myself with the enchantment of travel. Whatever the outcome, I can’t lose.
This isn't as clever as I could have made it, but I'm stuck on prose.