Distance

Words by Nina Phillips

Feature image by Lauren Rawlings

 

I’ll see you in August, you whispered. Like cigarette smoke, those five words seeped into my skin and hair follicles. As I boarded my flight home, the words trickled into my bloodstream and lingered within me for weeks.

I’ll. See. You. In. August. 

Strapped into an aisle seat, I did not notice as the world beyond my window trembled. Perhaps, if I had noted this tremor, I’d have realised I would soon be barred from returning to you, indefinitely.

Now, we exist 13,000 kilometres apart. A wall of glass divides us and only echoes of ourselves can visit each other. August is no longer a few months away. Our August could be in October or December or a year and a half from now. Our August is as postponed as a birthday party in April.

Tonight, we talk through a screen till you fall asleep. You lie on your back like always, a smile playing upon your lips, so still you could be a painting. Dreaming Boy Bathed in Blue. I reach toward you in hopes you’ll fold into my arms like a sun-soaked blanket.

I know, paintings are not to be touched. 

I know, even if one is to touch a painting, a painting cannot feel one’s caress, especially, when locked in a case. 

And yet, as the evening fades from gold to grey, I stretch my fingers into nothingness certain it’s the same nothingness that envelops you. My chest tightens and I close my eyes. Visions of an embrace that transcends time and space flood my mind and empty sheets. Limbs tangled, hearts pounding; our bodies nestle into each other. Your breath, warm and wistful, dances through my hair as you whisper a promise in five words. And August doesn’t feel so far away.

 

This piece was originally published in Edition 34 of Verse. View it in its original PDF form via ISSUU.

 

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