Forty days and forty nights I wandered with no end in sight.
Desert, desolate, alone with only my thoughts.
I mourned your loss even though, you never left.
Miles spanned the inches that separated us.
Miles of dried sandy dust.
They say: A day per month, or is it a month per tear?
My salty rain became my oasis.
I wonder if my wandering is all I will have to show, to fear.
Traveling a million miles but seeing no real places.
Miles of longing, wasting, and lusting.
There are too many miles.