“Attempting to reestablish connection. Please wait.”
The miles between us are shortened by man made miracles, yet underscored by the inadequacies of the virtual. A thousand, “I love you“‘s tinged by tungsten and the glow of my screen is an unequal substitute for my head on your shoulder, the squeeze of your hand, an afternoon spent laying in the grass. The curve of your face is still identifiably yours, though pixilated. The depth of your voice takes on a metallic quality when technology rebels and refuses to serve. The clock is a cruel, greedy master, and does not afford us much time together, now. The fragility of this connection is like a paper boat rushing through a stream polluted by fear and impatience, and at times threatens to dissolve altogether. I’m forgetting the way your hair smells. I can’t remember what kind of cologne you used. The roaring din of the silence of waiting for the briefest of meetings nearly drowns out tenderness, at times.
But we wait.
And we will still wait.
Until Time himself must stop and stare (like everyone else will) in that moment when the only space between us is contained in our interlocking fingers, and held captive between our lips.