Longing is such an apt word.

The physical space between us is now uncomfortably far.

Your presence is the early morning fog on a cool fall morning;

I can sense your essence enveloping me,

yet I cannot see you, cannot touch your actual being.

Longing is a feeling too fitting.

My heart feels stretched,

elongated to a point where it has not been dissected,

but pulled far enough to feel the painful strain.

The ache that circulates throughout my body is ongoing.

I still feel gratitude, genuine happiness, and moments of calm.

But the ache is ever-present, 

winding slowly and continuously through my veins like molasses,

settling and pooling in the depths of my muscles and tissues.

I long for you.

Each time I reach out to grab the phone,

preparing to call you,

I have to halt my hand mid-grasp 

and I feel that increasingly familiar tender twinge in my chest

because it dawns on me anew that you cannot answer.

This grief is far-reaching, long-lasting, all-encompassing.

Longing is too apt a word.

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This poem is about: 
My family


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