I hate it when someone says they need space. Space is the cold dead nothingness that surrounds the world. Space is the black chalkboard without anything thoughtful or profound written upon it. Space is the ocean between two ships slowly pushing them apart. Space is the festering pit where monsters like doubt and miss-communication breed, multiplying spilling out onto the decks of our vesseled hearts. Given enough space, those monsters will feed on each other and grow into infidelity. The space becomes so big other people fit into that space. And so when I try to reach out to you instead my fingers go into his eyes, or when you try to whisper to me your voice goes into her ears, and the monsters– they multiply. Space should be squashed immediately with closeness in the form of hugs and company, sex and conversation so the friction and static between our two bodies keep us warm at night and fuel is through the day. If you need space, it’s likely in that very moment I need the complete opposite of space– us.