When I say I miss you,

I don’t mean I miss our conversations.

Because in the gleaming age

of the damned internet that’s apparently sending us all to hell,

as well as down crumbling rabbit holes,

caving in behind us

as we scurry further down,

kicking off the dusty dirt from the soles of our feet –

you’re always only a call away.

Glowing quietly

amidst the plunge of 2am darkness;

an iridescent firefly,

floating atop the lull

of a forest kept quiet for its’ residents,

comatose beside their hoard of frosted acorns.

When I say I miss you,

I mean I miss the feeling

of holding my hand out

when I feel shaky; steady

in the comfort that it won’t be drifting

for long before yours curls around and between it,

like a cat’s bushy tail swaddling its own body, wilted

with a slumber buried in its bones.

And so with this space between us,

stretched across a canyon of unprecedented times,

too far

for even the tips of our fingers to meet,

I miss you.

Image courtesy of Visuals.