Nine hours, thirty-eight
minutes, or six hundred
thirty-four miles apart,
I knew I loved you
when I told a stranger
in a bar. A stranger I nearly
kissed, his warm, stubbled
cheeks, so much like
your own, gripped in my light
fingers. Closer and closer,
he and I, two seconds
or one centimeter apart.
“But I love a boy named --”
I said, never so sure, releasing
him back into the scene.
Tonight, I told you everything
in three syllables: I-miss-you.
And you said we’d see each other
again. I don’t know, though,
I don’t know. How love is.
So far, like a pit.
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