she is here, but her mind is far away.
her eyes stray often to her phone
as if it will save her from any awkwardness.
there is none though, but what she makes,
but what she doesn't allow me to say.
my words, oft rehashed, rehearsed,
lie dormant on my tongue.
they could free us from this distance.
but she doesn't want them,
casually, callously, refuses to acknowledge their potential.
and I am loathe to write them out.
too many times before,
my written words have changed the world.
my world.
my truth has been alone.
and hers absent.