The red apple


Long distance is the certainty of not knowing. Of never knowing. Long distance is a decision singed by the heat of regret. Long distance is wondering if the sun will rise again on your single body lying on a neat bed tomorrow. Long distance is wondering how many more squares are left on the calendar. Long distance is imagining the colors of a wilted flower. Long distance is a prayer to a foreign god.

Long distance is the memory of her face fading into a series of emojis in text messages. Long distance is scheduling your affection in your calendar. Long distance is remembering her as a blurry image, frozen by the slow internet at peak hours.

Long distance is not knowing if hearing her voice over the phone is the same as feeling her words breathe into your ears. It’s speaking affectionate words into a lifeless phone. Like prayer, it’s uttering your longing into the vastness of a sky, hoping that the dark canvas of the night won’t stifle it.

Long distance is surrender. It’s the resignation to uncertainty, and the whispered hope of an architect in the cosmos. Long distance is knowing your impossibly small place in the universe, and knowing how impossibly far everything is from everything else. Long distance is the ambition and arrogance of believing that you can make two stars collide, that you can drag two cosmic bodies across the infinite void.



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