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  • There are miles to soar over here, between you and I.

    This distance began as the two of us, a bottle of wine and the promise of a warm Fall. I remember the way the rain crept through the leaves just above the sidewalk and broke freely against the pale concrete. Our footprints against the planks of the porch became dipping valleys between the smallest of rivers.

    "It looks like a painting," you say, pointing out at the rain. "You know? Like a painting someone quickly made, in streaks?"

    Your words slipped through pink lips and into the heavy air, becoming soft and full clouds against a blue canvas. The grass grew tall between our toes, becoming trees against a hillside. When we slept, the night became an ocean. I watched you rise and fall against the wives, the bed sheets carrying you further away.

    Then the Winter came, snow buried our newly formed landscape, and in your eyes I felt a longing. For more distance. We let the space between us fill with roaring mountains and ominous valleys. Our stares became starlight, which we only really see after it has passed. So far away, we became.

    It all grew between us until it was so hard to see one another that we simply gave up searching. The trees grew and the rain fell and the ocean shook and the mountains trembled and it all became our world, the distance we created for ourselves.

    We created this, the miles we between us. But now, the thing is, everything was created with the other in mind. So now there are only trees and rainstorms and hanging clouds and mountain valleys and inescapable oceans and distant stars that only remind me of you.

    And it's all so far away from what's real.
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