Distance

It's complicated,
Like the plane ticket I never bought
For the invitation you always offered
Like a sacrifice to some jealous god,
Beautiful and terrible and
Better at a distance.

It's complicated,
Because though we both live
For these slow-motion conversations
These keyboard-clack promises
Of love cloaked in guilt and binary,
I want to die
With more.

It's complicated,
Because there are other poems to write
Other hands to hold
Warm and solid and
(For once)
There,
Unmarred by pixels and obligation.

It's complicated,
Because no matter how many letters we write
Texts we send
Nights we waste
There are nine hundred and eighty six miles between
There and Here,
Which is nothing to the distance between
You
And me.