by Jaron Chandler
876 Miles, the finite distance to an infinite incapability of being where I want to be,
far beyond where the horizon obstructs my sight
loathing distance has never meant more to me.
This pain in my chest is driven by nail with each stage of anxiety
this pit in my stomach sinks further with every inch you seem leave.
Waking after the dawn of a night I cant forget is torture in it's own
when I feel this drifting piece of me fading so far from home.
This vessel I am, cage-conditioned, desolated, derelict,
tries to put back every puzzle piece but none of them seem seem to fit.
I'm cold without your heat
I'm dead without your heartbeat
I breathe with ease but I'm just a husk that's empty where you cant see.
Now you've gone, no anger just pain remains
awaiting eagerly in my eerie state, staging this happy face so that next we meet I wont feel the need to pretend I'm okay.