There’s something special about waking up in the morning without an ache in my chest because you’re here besides me. You’re here, breathing quietly, sleeping soundly, eyes closed and legs crossed with mine. There’s something special about falling asleep with ease unlike all of the restless nights before you came along. You’re here, arms wrapped around me tightly, leaving trails from your fingertips against my skin. There’s something special about the way we can kiss or talk or not say anything at all and it all feels okay. 

Distance is the space between our fingers and the way our legs don’t intertwine like they should. Distance is the number of miles that are separating us from the places we want to be, the beds we want to be sleeping in. Distance is the way your voice sounds through telephone lines and computer screens. Distance is that longing feeling in my chest that I get often throughout the day. Distance is what’s keeping us from falling asleep comfortably and I am so uncomfortable. 

I tried to tell you once before that this wasn’t how I wanted it to be. I wanted it to be different; to feel something new, to feel alive. I tried to tell you twice before you looked at me in the eyes and let me down. I tried to tell you, but you didn’t listen.