Lost

I grieve my inability to turn you into what I want you to be: here.

You are always somewhere else: next month, seven steps ahead, a moment away, three hours ago, the past week; a few distances away, framed by a window, an inch apart, walled by glass, wrapped in distance, lost in thought; that indecipherable frown, cryptic vibrations, obscurity.

The wall I put up falls into shambles, but patiently, I pick up and rebuild. The foundations are weak. I make do with pretense, believing it would hold, as if it ever did, as if it ever will. Meanwhile, the distance picks up its pace, the hole deepens, your absence becomes more and more present.

And so, I I toil, I dig, never knowing what it is I work for, what it is I look for--your presence or obliteration. Am I conjuring or am I erasing?

Even this page fails to capture you. When I get to the bottom, I glance back up. In the end, I go back to where I started.