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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
Copyright ©
Bernard F. Asuncion
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