Pressing

I can feel the distance growing like a solid thing,
a coil around my lungs that keeps on tightening
until it's a struggle to keep breathing.
The weight of it presses against my eyes like
fat greedy fingers fighting to find the hidden prize.
I try to push back, but the pressure holds fast.
"My Dear," Distance laughs,
"You could never fight me! I am constantly
a threat, and we'll inevitably meet
again." I wanted to forget those words, but they
itched in my chest and burned my soul with truth.
Now I feel them every time I say goodbye,
and often when I'm missing you.







Awwwww.
I can't seem to stop writing this kind of poem, possibly because I feel guilty for not keeping in touch/ visiting all of my friends.