when most people talk about distance, they’re usually referring to the space on a mapMature

I am not measuring this in road signs
but there are signs, of course. That telltale quiver
in your voice.  The heaviness of traffic inside my body,
all things buzzing and humming and thumping but
everything somehow disconnected, just background.
White noise.  I think about your touch when I look at your hand
but I do not move to engage it.  Sometimes you’re a ghost
in this house. sometimes you’re the sun, 
sometimes you’re gravity. 

The End

32 comments about this poem Feed