Words That Span The Miles

Every night without you feels like a sentence I keep rewriting, hoping the ending changes. I trace the map on my wall, finger pressing against the space between your city and mine, as if longing alone could fold the world in half. The bed carries your shape in absent ways, and I fill the silence with every memory we've made until sleep finally takes me.

But mornings come, and with them, the quiet certainty that each day apart is one day closer to your hand in mine again. I pack meaning into every message, every late-night call, building a bridge word by word across all that empty air. Hold on with me — the distance is temporary, and we are not. Soon the miles will shrink to nothing but a story we tell about how we survived them.