I Do Want To

Distanced. Without a phone. I couldn't contact you, if I wanted. I do want to, at times. I don't know what it is I want to say though. And we never said a lot when together anyways, I s'pose. I think, when I think of calling you, it would be to let you know that at that moment, or perhaps a second before you answer, I wanted to hold you. Bring your back to my chest with my arms around you. Match your breathing to mine. Locate your hand with mine and clutch it and stay warm together. Watch the moonlight sneak through the curtains playing with your hair and turning your face soft as a ripe peach. Breathe in your sleeping smell and run my finger tips the length of your carefully placed body.

I think, that if I called you to say this to you, just saying it would make it feel more real, more possible: within reach. But it's not. You're not within reach, even by a phone call. It's too cold to type to you and see only grammatically incorrect sentences and spelling mistakes and your pictures, but not you. I go to sleep with music playing at night, or during the day if I sleep then - which I sometimes do - just to distract myself from you. Or if beyond distraction, then to imbibe the music as a means of traveling through the universe and across the continents to right where you are.

I hope I fall asleep dreaming I'm with you. I thought I saw you the other day. Passing by on the other side of the road, your head down, watching the steps you treaded on the footpath that was still glistening from the five minute before downpour. But at an intersection, who I thought was you, looked up and forward and I could see it not so. So I put my head to my shoes to stop trying to find you. I don't know why it makes any logical sense that you'd be here sometimes. Of course it's an impossibility, for the most part. But I guess, sometimes, hope doesn't know how to not grow from want. And what I want is you.