I am always moving towards you.
On my bad days, I say to myself: “then you”.
Sure, this now. But then you.
I will keep tossing myself life lines.
I will keep writing myself afloat
until I don’t have to write a poem for every mile marker
from here to California.
You and I together is the most foolish thing
I’ve ever hoped for. You and I apart is more foolish.
When I can’t sleep at night, I dream up
conversations with you. I never call. I never push.
I try not to whine. I just write it all down.
Sometimes I want to apologize for wanting you out loud,
like too many people know the reasons
I am going to have laugh lines.
Sometimes instead of distanced pillow talk,
I want to curl up with the phone
and read you poetry.
Instead, we just talk about it.
You say, “honey, how was your day?”
And I say, “today I wrote another poem
about your coffee cup mouth
and all the ways you still keep me up at night.”
I hear a sigh in your smile.
You make a sound that reminds me of
fighting with my bags at the airport;
but you’re still too far away.