"Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings

infinite distances continue to exist,

a wonderful living side by side can grow up,

if they succeed in loving the distance between them."

RM Rilke

She would always be the wind, and I would always be the grass.

She would always fly freely into the ocean sky, forever ephemeral and changing. Yet I stay rooted to the ground, silently wishing for her to grace me with her soft zephyrs of embraces. I am always stuck waiting for that monsoon, that time she will return back to me.

Often I surprise myself of how tall I've grown from the ground. Yet I will still remain reaching for the skies—her abode—in order to get closer to her. Somewhere today, she is roaming freely like her spirit, always changing… always open. And I cannot blame her because I chose to hold myself here.

And just like the grass, no matter how long the wait has made me anxious and doubtful, when the breezes would come, I am always left with awe and they would compel me to wait a little longer for her…

What is time—hours, weeks, months, years—when it is compared to the softness of her body pressing onto me? And what does it matter that I cannot capture her in my hands to hold onto her a little longer? Such as water, or the sands of time, they would always slip through the cracks of my fingers until none of their traces remain.

It is through this waiting that I am able to feel alive.

I could run—run to feel the pulse of blood fill me up to my fingertips. I could escape, and free myself from this damned place in anticipating her return. I could pretend that I did not hear her voice, pretend that the blood coursing through my veins did not rise up higher, pretend that I would not look back to make sure it was her presence standing somewhere in the crowd.

I could pretend, but it's easier to succumb.

And this I do…

And my life has faltered down with me like the passing of falling autumn leaves—dead, but somehow, still beautiful in their own way. Just waiting for the rise of spring when they would feel alive again.

Maybe this distance is nothing. Maybe time is nothing. Maybe she's waiting for me somewhere.

Pretension can be such a healer, but if I did it any other way, dying would be so much easier.

A/N: Thank you so much for those who read and reviewed Rail Roads. ^ ^ This short fic is just something I had to get out of my chest before I wrote the second part of my previous fic. Kinda sad... but that's what I love about this anime. Nothing must be taken for granted.