We are finite.
Each of us,
Limited — In light,
                    In heart,
                    In purpose.
We are ants,
Scurrying
Between raindrops.
Lost in hives,
Lost in war,
Lost in consciousness.
We are a ticking clock.
We are dying love.
Clinging — to hope,
                     to family,
                     to possessions.
Terrified of the truth.
That there is no order.
That there is no meaning.
That there is only fear.

I want to let go —
To leave this pain
                this emptiness
behind.

i sit here in tomorrow,
as you lay there in yesterday.

our voices cross oceans and continents; each sigh and breath dancing all the way from your bedroom to mine. i press the phone closer to my ear, close my eyes and listen, like maybe it can help me picture you there, within touching distance, a smile drawn across your face, eyelids droopy with sleep, fingers tracing the lines of my body.
after each sentence i pause, listen to your breathing and make sure you're still there, hung on my every word, like i am yours.
hours of this. you, shy and quiet, laughing gently and beautifully. me, carrying conversation, telling you stories and weaving lines of poetry into your day, crossing time zones, while i should be asleep.
after minutes and minutes of both of us saying goodbye but neither of us hanging up, i love you is what i softly whisper. you don't hear me and i don't mind, because you murmur it to me without thinking, quiet too, almost like it was never there, like i imagined it all.
of course you hang up first, of course i lie there for hours after, with the phone still pressed tightly to my ear, trying to burn the entire conversation into my brain to replay over and over when you are the one asleep, while i am still awake.

i remember lying down with you on top of me and you pressed your palm in the space between my *******, pushing your weight on my breast bone, and i breathed deep and told you ‘don’t do that’ because you were too close to my heart.