miles from where you are, i lay down on the cold ground, i pray that something picks me up and sets me down in your warm arms

the truth is, we ran out of time...

I thought I'd wake up to a beautiful sunrise. I thought I'd take the world and spin it on my finger and shape it the shape of you and I. But my sunrise was actually an eclipse. The world was far too heavy for me to lift, let alone spin or mould it into anything other than what it is.

So tell me now, after I have made you dream, how am I meant to make you forget all those hopes? How do I make it okay to erase every wish, every glimmer? I feel like I can't let you think them any longer, not even in the eventuality that I will one day be able to make your dreams come true again. We are so alone, so apart, so torn by contradictory yearnings that only measure the distance between us, while doing nothing to shorten it.

I have said this countless times, and it has somehow still not become familiar. Waiting is the only way in which I find it impossible to pass the time; it feels incomplete, like I am jumping seconds or lengthening minutes, trying to find the reason for why I am. You know you are my reason, but when you are not there, it isn't likely that I find a suitable way to find you close to me in my surroundings.

Yet you always let me wait. You said you'd tell me what you decided to do. You never bothered to text that decision, call and tell me what it was, leave an offline message, any of the countless things you could have done to tell me not to wait. I think you don't really fully understand the amount I worry when I can't know what you're doing and when I don't want to call because some part of me that will always be too proud to admit this in front of you, thinks that you're probably busy with stuff that is none of my business, since you failed to inform me what it was. And then, with a little pang of something curious, stuck between jealousy and the feeling of being betrayed, I realise I probably make no difference, that I probably have no right to know what you're doing or when you are because, no matter how much love or affection exists between us, it is still your life, and not ours.

And I know you will tell me it's not like that. But it is. We are as intertwined as seasons are, as the cycles of nature are, as the phases of the moon are, but we are also as different as summer is from winter, as different as withered flowers are from blooming buds, as different as a crescent moon is from a full one. Try as it may, the moon will never catch the sun in its race up in the sky. Consequently, maybe, try as I might, I will never be enough, deep down, for either of us. I will always want to be more than I am to you, while what you want will be concealed behind your attempts at convincing both of us that I am what you want. And maybe, somehow, I am. But then I am not what you need.

I hope it is fun, and just because this time I simply can't bring myself to pick up the phone and text and see what happened, I hope, over and over again, I hope until every bone in my body secretly covets this, that you are ok and taking care and having fun. But mostly that you are okay. Because, in almost just as secret way, I'm worried sick that something happened and I might have lost the best thing in my life.

Please be okay. That's the last thing I'll ever ask, I promise.