It doesn't really matter at all.
The concept of time as a measure of interaction is no longer worth keeping...it has been overcome by the sheer fact that all that prior interlude collapses the moment I speak with you again...reminding that we are not meant to measure us by a clock, by anything that others need to feel and cling to...rather like the way the moon pulls waves at varying tides I hear you and I react...always, and seemingly endlessly the same...each and every time we talk.
The concept of distance is a bit of a different matter though...it cannot allow the sweet ingestion of you coming into view...the light fragrance at your wrist and hand...the feel of your hair cascading over us and the clutch...
Distance is a bitch.
But what I lay in brick by brick thoughts that ultimately bring me to your feet once again are the silent movies of us that I rewind and that I play again and again...over and over, the playlist of our conversations is my muse, the way darkened rooms played light music and overtures, the distance dwindling until it was non-existent.
Time and distance...they don't really matter...so long as you are at the end of both of them.
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