Miles Cannot Steal What the Heart Has Already Claimed

Distance is only geography.
It measures the earth between feet, not the quiet nearness of two souls that have once truly touched.

Our hearts do not recognize borders drawn on maps.Distance is only geography.
They refuse the cold arithmetic of kilometers and time zones.
Instead they travel—swift as thought, soft as remembered breath—crossing oceans in the space of a single heartbeat, arriving always at the same familiar shore: you.

When the ache of absence curls tight around my ribs and the room feels suddenly too large, too empty,
I do not fight the sadness.
I let it come, let it sit beside me like an old friend who knows the story by heart.

And then I turn, deliberately, toward gratitude.
Because missing you is not punishment—it is proof.
Proof that I have been given someone rare, someone whose absence carves a space only their presence can fill.
Someone whose laugh still echoes in the hollows of my days, whose scent lingers in the folds of shirts I have not worn in months, whose smallest gestures replay behind my closed eyelids like secret films I alone can watch.

How fortunate I am
to carry inside me a person so entirely necessary
that even their lack becomes a kind of companionship.
To know a love so vivid that its shadow still warms the skin.
To have someone worth every mile, every hour apart, every quiet pang that reminds me I am alive enough to feel this deeply.

So let the continents stretch between us.
Let the hours pile into days, the days into moons.
Our memories are swifter travelers than any airplane.
They need no passport, no departure gate.
In the time it takes to close my eyes and say your name,
I am already there—
fingers brushing the curve of your smile,
forehead resting against the steady rhythm of your chest,
home in the only place that has ever truly mattered:
the small, infinite country we built together
inside each other’s hearts.

And when the missing grows loud,
I whisper to myself the truest comfort I know:
I would rather ache with this much love
than live without ever having known it at all.

You, my faraway constant,
are the sweetest sorrow
and the deepest joy
I have ever been lucky enough to carry.

Ancestral Healing
Art: Anne Packard - Journey