The seven thousand miles had never seemed so far before. Not when one brief message could tune our hearts into a single beat. Not when our bodies twined together within so many lucid dreams or when our breaths froze to perfect silence in a midnight phonecall.
The seven thousand miles had never seemed as terrifying as the silence of an empty inbox. The fight to ignore the brief, selfish wish that something’s amiss, and I haven’t really faded the way I knew I would.
And I can’t tell if you’re being kind and saving me the heartache, wishing me to forget. It’s a nicer thought than believing I was the one forgotten. I can’t keep repeating that your touch has burned through my skin and into my bones.