I’ve been awake for 23 hours straight. During that time, I’ve had 12+ beers and 5+ coffees. I’m either dying or invincible.
You look up from the pages of your book,
and your brown hair falls in front of your eyes.
You tuck it behind your ear
as you describe how the characters
try and fail to find love.
I nod and say interesting,
but I barely hear one word you speak.
Something is happening to me.
It starts as a warm glow in my toes
and travels through my body
until my mind is overheated and shuts down.
Suddenly, I am just a pair of eyes seeing,
seeing something beautiful,
the only thing that is beautiful.
For a moment, you are all that is.
For a moment, you are all that has ever been.
Your eyes return to the book, and I remember:
from the perspective of the universe,
we are smaller than ants.
When we try to define our importance,
we realize we can’t.
But the moment we just shared…
as it took place, I forgot the universe.
We were the universe.
And from the perspective of two,
we were giants.
We were the reason for all things.
No one could ever convince me that that moment,
no matter how brief,
I’ve had a handful of such moments with you.
Together they add up to less than one minute—
nothing compared to the hours, days, and years
spent knowing that I am less than an ant.
But they are enough.
I live for the moments when I can forget I’m living.
I live for the moments with you.
(listen to me read the poem here)
Even when we’re far apart, we’re closer than most.