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You have so changed my perspective
that now one thousand miles is no physical distance but an unbridgable gap,
far as heaven is from hell.
("Ha, banishment! be merciful, say 'death';
For exile hath more terror in his look
...Heaven is here, where Juliet is.")

And I feel so stupid for feeling so ecstatic about that night.
I don't think it meant anything to you.
How could it? How could I?
Did you, do you, even feel this at all?
Or am I wasting my lungs,
screaming across this black distance just so I can hear my own voice
in a meaningless echo?

And they all got it wrong.
All those poets and songwriters before me didn't know the right words for this feeling.
Because I didn't feel like I could reach up and touch the stars.
I felt like, if the stars all fell right then and there, I'd have been no less happy,
because I was with you,
and because I'd had one day that was actually worth my time.

And I knew it!
I knew from the start that if I stayed on this path,
I'd feel like this, I'd have no consolation.
I wonder why I didn't end it:
Back then I didn't know whether or not you were worth it.
I do now.
I know beyond a doubt that you are worth every ounce of heartache
that I pour now from pen to paper,
and every minute spent waiting.
Consider it a gift, even if one you probably won't want.

But is there even anything to be gained from waiting for you?
If there is, please tell me now.
Let me know I can have some hope and this distance will cease to exist to me.
I'll know I'm not wasting my words,
and I'll count this exile not permanent.