It’s a tragedy, these fissures and voids that lie between.
I hate that it isn’t simple, that my arms can’t reach, can’t cover the gap, can’t wrap around in times of need.
We’re left to maneuver the open lines of communication.
But alas, letters and phone calls don’t satisfy my imagination.
I’d rather it be that we are settled comfortably in sections of our fictional fort built with blankets and chairs.
In my favorite version of managing the miles, the giggles and secrets and everything else vibrate across the expanse of string attached to the empty can against my ear.