there is something beautiful about the way he would say my name,
a rough accent as he spoke about his day.
he’d tell me about the sun and i’d tell him about the moon,
he’d tell me about the cold nights, and i’d tell him about the hot mornings.
how his guitar went and broke, and how i missed a step in my dance.
he’d laugh, whisper about how clumsy i am.
i’d snicker, and tell him he plays too much.
we’d both cry when we hung up, too many miles between us.
my dreams are filled with visions of a city,
red, blue, and white flags and large castles,
the sweet smell of tea and the cool wind hitting my tan skin.
he dreams of the sun and tall skyscrapers,
of the music and smells and dance as we walked through the streets,
the sweet, addicting taste of meeting once again.
i promised him that one day, we’d visit
and that visit would extend until we reached our final days.
that the 6,323 miles between us were not permanent,
only a barrier that we would cross over.
that one day, the phone calls would be replaced by pillow talk,
and that the photographs would turn into watching together.
that no matter the city, the country, the continent, or the language,
my home was in his heart, there until the end.
- R.K.