Our ends of the earth

A poem about long-distance

The road, however long, however inconvenient,
rarely matters when a connection hums in harmony,
Two hearts pumping out blood on the same beat.
While the tide moves slower at my shore and your clouds
carry the weight of a thousand bitter tears, the sun rises for us.
The streets are vacant, the inhabitant has gone away for the summer
once crowded turns silent, and I can make out your silhouette alongside the cobblestone.

You reach out in the shape of lemon yellow butterflies on sunny days,
sunflower fields, bright and certain, we find each other in moonlit gardens.
I never second guess your intentions
and you never second guess my words.

The light you carry reaches me and I bask in it,
a glimmer of someone I hold so close to my heart,
my city has never seen your face, but I can tell you are missed.

The ocean between us cannot diminish the love that exists.
Despite everything, some day we will drink coffee in the sun,
seated at a table with nothing but a vase of tulips between us.

As I take my usual walk along the lake, I think of what to tell you in my letters. What moment in time I would like to preserve for the future. The sun is warm now, the breeze is kind, and as my face feels warmth for the first time in months, I think of the sky over yours. Is it warm? Is it kind? On our ends of the earth, one sun warms us. If I close my eyes, let the sun play with the reds and the blacks, you are sitting next to me. For a split second, the earth seems small, the road cut short.

Someday we will sit here, or there, with nothing but a warm conversation between us. The sun does not know whether we are next to each other or oceans apart, it still shines upon us as if we were one. In many ways, despite everything, we are.

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