by Claire Amaladoss

There are two hundred and twenty six
miles between us.
Google algorithms inform me it would take three days
to reach you
on foot.

Quantifying the distance is no comfort;
digits on a screen do nothing to reconfigure the separation.

It is not miles or metres
nor A-roads or motorways.
The distance is the exact size of the space beneath my fingertips
that your skin no longer occupies.

It is caressing empty air.


Claire Amaladoss |

Claire is a full-time policy wonk and part-time poet based in London. She spends her days trying to work out what healthcare needs to look like in 10 years‘ time and when she’s not racking her brains in Westminster, she can be found taking photographs in Kew Gardens. She’s for ever waiting for her invite on to Desert Island Discs and she never says ‘when’ if someone’s grating cheese on her plate of pasta.

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