i. black cat.
i tried pretending to stare
at the floor, at my feet, at
anything but your sneakers on a
white linoleum square two tiles
away from me. that sort of
impossible distance
always means trouble.
i lifted two shaking hands
to my mouth so i wouldn’t say
something stupid, like
“will you dance with me?”  

ii. monday.
how much can you say with nothing but words?
enough.
a million letters later, the clocks
said i should be sleeping.
on the other side of the screen, you
had no idea i calculated the
space between us.

iii. tunnel vision.
i know that concrete sepulcher
under the city like the pages
of the story. somewhere between
independence avenue and the mall, i
realized the answers slept on the
other side of the tracks. strange that
i didn’t find it strange that
i would have waited all night for you.

iv. trigonometry.
funny how this was once
the coldest room, and my
pillow never saw me smile before.
foggy october mornings
bit at my cheeks and painted
my nose red; i just watched my breath
escape and thought of living out the
winter as i never imagined.

v. twilight.
distance hid
in the corner as we lost ourselves
on anonymous side-streets
and in the blinding headlamps of
oncoming trains.
i never said you were too close;
it was just difficult to breathe.
later i felt that same distance
stretching out its legs as i sped
home. the subway makes my hair smell
like loneliness.

vi. plastic jesus.
promises trembled between our
lips and landed softly
on the carpet. i lifted a shaking hand
to your mouth and
said all those stupid things anyway.