At night:
             when sleep fails to envelop my body like a gentle lover
             (or, rather, what I imagine a lover’s embrace to be),
             I sit by the window and watch the moon’s light
             flood the sky, the grounds, the lake, and the mountain beyond--
And I think:
             is this moonlight shining on him? And if it is,
             does he remember when that light once shone on us?
             Am I wishing I was still at his side, as much as he
             wishes he was at mine?
I know he has other, bigger things, than to think of the girl he left behind.
And I have other, bigger things, than to think of the boy who left me.
But on these nights, I cannot help but look to the horizon, trace the serrated
peaks circling this castle, imagine slicing that line they set between the
shadowy mass of mountain and the shadowy blue sky,
and when there is no line on the horizon, the distance between us seems
wider
smaller
less possible to measure
growing and growing until it reaches an infinity so big
that it can’t be real, I can’t bear it if it's real,
and it--
collapses under its own weight,
shrinks while retaining all its power,
and I’m no longer crushed,
but instead:
             acutely aware.
             And once it reduces to a singular point,
             the line cuts my hands,
             leaps into its rightful place,
and as morning breaks the moonlight’s hold upon the sky, the grounds, the lake,
and the mountains beyond, I feel as though I have achieved a state of grace,
and am willing to bear any weight the day might bring.
No Line On The Horizon by welshdevondragon
Story Notes:
Thank you to Julia for setting such a wonderful challenge, and thank you for Carole for the crit you gave me. Due to html stuff the indentations are not quite what I want them to be, but this is the best I can manage.