It's just a mess

I miss you.

So much it hurts.

So much that my heart beats out of my chest

every time you call me "dear," or "darling"

or "babe."

The smell of you on my jacket,

on my bracelet; on me

reminds me that you're not as far away as

my heart would like to pretend you are.

We are not existing as parallel lines.

We are weaving a web of typed words

and whispered secrets

in the dark of my bedroom

in front of computer screens.

Call every chance you get, because we

are running out of chances.

We are running out of time.

We are running out of each other.

And, while we'd like to pretend that

it doesn't exist,

the end is inevitable.

We can't run forever, love.

It is only a matter of time before all of this-

one whole world

is just typed words

and whispered secrets

on a blank page, in the dark.

And we have broken the web we fought so hard

to weave.

Love,

Lizz