Melt to the tunes of Pat Metheny;
pour myself another cup of coffee...
evening drips, easy, from the horns
of early stars.
An owl perches in the crotch
of the willow, and I sit here, wondering
if you are sleeping yet; time zones
too complex for me.
Stare blankly at a map... the one
you pinned on the wall before you left;
I stroke the elongated, brownish blotch
they call ‘Honduras’.
Strange, how mapped oceans and seas
appear becalmed – stiller even,
than the land itself.
and cities laced with rivers and bays
I can touch with my hands.
Kid myself that the space between us
is but inches; so close I could feel
your breath on my cheek...
trace the line of your jaw
and that funny, snub nose...and then
those lips, that now I kiss, only
with he tips of my fingers.
yet, every inch, represents
five thousand miles...I am here,
you are there...so near
yet so very out of reach.