Tuesday Afternoon Sensory Input

I used to equate distance with absence. But absence is only absence when you’re unsure. This isn’t that.

Tuesday Afternoon Sensory Input

Sight.

Her face appears pixel by pixel, slow-loading clarity from another continent. Sunlight in Senegal catches the edge of her cheekbone, and even through the screen, she glows. The image stutters, lag. Then smooths. Then laughter. The miles dissolve in a smile I’ve memorized.

Sound.

Her voice, even buffered, carries that knowing tone. Not loud. Not daily. But it lands with the weight of care, not obligation. One message drops like a stone in still water. Echoes for days. I don’t need more. Just that. Just her, and that’s enough to keep me from losing my fucking mind.

Touch.

It’s not skin or heat or weight I miss. It’s the press of intention. The graze of a thought she sends while traveling foreign streets. The text that arrives as I’m sitting in a tall building doing important things “I miss you.” That’s touch. That’s intimacy that doesn’t rely on arms.

Smell.

Somewhere, I know she smells like dust and spice and salt air. New landscapes. Ancient streets. But my pillow still carries the faint echo of her, lavender and logic. Warmth and wit. I breathe it in like it’s fresh, not faded.

Taste.

Space has a flavor. It’s not bitter. It’s not lonely. It’s something like coffee left to steep, stronger with time, not weaker. Some loves are fast food. Ours is slow-cooked, simmered under a Senegalese sun and seasoned with trust.

I Remain.