690kms and a North Sea apart.

I'm off to see her again. Tomorrow, after work.

I'm taking the car this time. There's something discontinuous about travelling by plane. You board, you disembark. The physical connection between your departure and destination as ellusive as the thin air you've travelled through. I find it somewhat unsettling. This is love we're talking about. I have a strange desire to feel the physical distance between me and her. To conquer it of my own accord. To know I can bridge the only thing that seperates us.

690kms and a North Sea apart.

I look forward to the drive. It'll be riddled with anticipation. The route as familiar as the lines on my palms. The time, gained to think. To let the rush of the impending "hello" build up gradually. To savour it. The longing. To know that at the end of the road, when the night has long come to a close and the morning has made its quiet entry, I'll be turning the key in her door quietly, so as not to waken her.

In my mind, I'll have rehearsed the silent trip up to her bedroom a thousand times over. In reality, she'll have gotten up at the sound of the engine approaching. She'll be waiting for me, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. The "hello" leaping onto me from through the doorway. And then the silence will return. All that will remain is the warmth of her embrace, the softness of her kiss, the calm returning to my head.

She'll grab me by the hand and without a further word, lead me up the stairs. The darkness blurring out the boundaries between us.