I'm laying in bed, thinking about distances.

I’m laying in bed, thinking about distances.

How far away you are from me. How many miles I must travel just to take a chance. How many chances I must take just to travel to you.

The length of time it must take to wait for loneliness to subside. The length of a bus, or a subway car, or a queue for tickets. The length of your fingers and if it will intertwine with mine perfectly, or less than so.

I am thinking about seasons. And reasons. And dying leaves. And dying promises.

If we collect the minutes and miles and centimeters and seconds that feel so long, would it be enough to travel to the moon? I’m sure it would. Or even to my nearest favorite star.

I’m laying in bed, thinking about distances. How the tectonic plates slide alongside each other, making you slip further away, and back again. Like how I long to kiss you and have my tongue on your tongue. Holding you. Feeling your warmth. No longer being alone.

I’m laying in bed, thinking about distances. The distance between my head and my heart.

The distance between my soul and your soul.

The distance from here to happiness.

(Source: stateofjoe)

11 notes | 6 months ago

Misleading Most,

I’m laying in bed, thinking about distances.

11 notes