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.