The rift between You and I stretches beyond the horizon.

You, the pronoun describing your self;

I, the pronoun describing my current self.

The horizon: a paper folded through its middle, curling in on itself.

The paper halves rest atop one another.

It's a quiet intimacy We are not privvy to.

We, the pronoun describing our selves.

You're "only a call away," you'd said.

It was true then, and it is true now.

Still, the splashing of the waves on the shore do not mix with the sand.

They push, and they pull—

Wax and wane.

An eternal dance, married to yearning.

I told you to "lose my number."

I think, at the time, I believed myself greater than I am.

A martyr of fruition, the immortalization of what could've been.

The tides have risen higher, soaking my knees.

I've lost sight of the shore, of sand, and my feet stand on nothing; nothing?

There was something there; something hidden in the sand.

"I'll call you," We agreed, unaware of the looming, lonely tomorrow.

I believed you then.

You believe me now.