Know that I think of you often.
He calls me his hope. The brightest star in his sky, hanging delicately from the canopy I'm suspended in. His zenith. Something suddenly tangible and able to touch. Not in the literal sense, at least not now. I don't count the distance in miles as much as I count it in hours of longing, and minutes apart from each phone call. In every other way, he's near my heart. He dwells in it so often, that I'm sure it's his now.
In so many ways he's that to me. My hope. My faith. A faith in something larger than myself. Perhaps a faith in that one emotion I can't seem to hold on to for long. With him it seems like the possibilities are without bounds, and without restrictions. They're free and resolute and they're ours. That word sounds so melodic to me at hours such as these. Ours. It has so much simplicity and yet so much sincerity. Missing him is something sincere and true.
In so many ways he's that to me. My hope. My faith. A faith in something larger than myself. Perhaps a faith in that one emotion I can't seem to hold on to for long. With him it seems like the possibilities are without bounds, and without restrictions. They're free and resolute and they're ours. That word sounds so melodic to me at hours such as these. Ours. It has so much simplicity and yet so much sincerity. Missing him is something sincere and true.