Folding

a short tragic story about two people who are geographically separated

How many miles

Does it take you

Our knuckles are red 

From our firm grasp on things

That need to be folded

So that the bridge

Is at least somewhat molded

Over tear tracks for miles

On the landscapes of my cheeks, warm and lonely

To fold the rocks fields and towns 

To pick up your side

Like folding a towel

And I’ll pick up mine

We both have our sides, we’re holding on tight

Nothing will shake you

And eventually

The rocks and trees and bridges

Will fall in between

Our fingers will touch

Or just touch the screen

When we meet in the middle

It's a place that's serene