Bridging The Silent Miles

Every night I press my hand against the windowpane and imagine the glass thinning into the air that touches your skin. I map constellations from my bedroom and trace their slow drift toward your hemisphere, wondering if you might be tracing them too. The distance between us has become a kind of language, one I never wanted to learn but now speak fluently in sleep.

Someday the map will fold itself shut, and I will cross the room to you in three footsteps instead of three thousand. I will press my forehead to yours and realize I had almost forgotten the particular warmth of your breath. But until that morning, I will keep sending these words like paper boats across the dark water, trusting the current to carry them home.