Unspoken Miles

The map lies flat, a deceit of inches, centimeters whispering false intimacies. Your voice, a ghost on the wire, once a warm hum against my ear, now a brittle echo across continents, time zones a thick pane we press against, unhearing. The scent of rain here carries no memory of the petrichor there, no shared sigh as the dry earth drinks. We build bridges of words, fragile spans across the silence, each message a small step into the vast unknown of the other's now. And sometimes, in the quiet dark, the space between us feels less like miles, more like a held breath, a pause before a meeting we can only dream. But then the sun rises, yours hours before mine, and the distance yawns again, a hungry, unspoken thing. ©bfa041925