The microphone is still resting against my lips. The shock sinking into them. The disappointment of another conversation having ended too soon. My mouth trying to absorb every trace of your voice always ringing in me. My head is spinning. Twenty-four hours without you.
I feel guilty for quantifying the distance because it means nothing. I miss you even if you called me every second. I’d miss you not once in a day but in every wasted breath that doesn’t mingle in your hair or your cheek or your chest or your arms. It’s a wastage of a lifetime. However much I love doing what I do, knowing you being yours has taken over and nothing matters if I can’t have you wrap yourself around my waist and breathe into my neck. I never wanted to be a possession but this is poisonous and now I want it even more. I am losing my freedom of movement to this battle. It makes my eyes dull and my hair lifeless and I lose hope. I am a ruin without you.
And so twenty-four hours are just as yet so much more agonising than a moment that I lay crippled against my bed. A rustled bedsheet bunched against twisted legs. Pouted lips and sad eyes. A state of misery and a promise of a bleak day without you. I am a specter of myself without you.