Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger,

I am furious with the distance—
this invisible thief
that wears no face
yet lays its hands on you
without consequence.

I curse the sunlight
for worshipping your skin in gold,
for draping itself over you
like it has earned that right.

And the rain—
I despise the rain most of all,
how it dares to fall for you,
each drop a quiet confession
I cannot make.