The whole world seems softer.
I'm talking to someone four hundred sixty three miles away.
The number of miles doesn't stop the
phone calls, quiet conversations, letters. The
waiting for you to call back,
the emailing and the IM'ing, the
multitasking and tugging a blue shirt over my head
while talking into the speakerphone
and looking at my plain, girl-on-the-outside reflection in the mirror.
Now I'm writing you a letter and I'm fiddling with my necklace
and the sun softens the white, white wall.
copyright Maya Ganesan, 2009