I feel the ocean that separates us. Its vastness is a gaping maw into which my heavy heart plunges with stones in its pockets. It crashes and drowns, and I lay inconsolable in my bed. Half formed words floating out of the depths from my shaking hand. Those last, desperate gasps. There is no sun in my sky, for it dawns in yours, half a world away.

This misplaced feeling, like all misplaced things, doesn’t quite fit. A puzzle piece jammed in an empty space, trying to complete a picture that will always remain imperfect. A clash of colors, or a broken pixel on a screen, my flaw is miniscule, but omnipresent now that I know it exists. I can’t stop staring at it. Like a wound, I can’t stop picking at it.

It’s not right. It’s not right. I have no right.

This love is not mine to have and your hand is not mine to hold, but I languish in the space of could be. This love could be mine. This love of yours you give so freely behind quiet tears and soft laughs and lilac hearts that have no business meaning as much as they do–it could be mine.

Must I simply take it? Should I just accept it?

There is a box wrapped in shiny, purple paper, topped with a blue, glittery bow. One of my many names is written on the tag. But the ink is smudged, dragi, and the name doesn’t match my driver’s license. Is it me you give this to, or the idea of me? Which name do you sigh when you think of me, love?

What should I do with my desire to kiss you, a taste my lips have never known, but yearn for still? What should I do with these spaces between my fingers where yours have never been, but surely belong? What should I do when I miss you, you, whose voice I’ve only ever heard and whose touch I’ve never felt?

The moon is bright in my sky tonight, so I hope the sun is bright in your sky, as well. If I think too closely about weather patterns and cloud movements, I’ll be reminded of the very real, very deep ocean, where my heart is slowly sinking.

So, instead, I hope your day is clear.