i gambled a tank of gas and a place to sleep
on the chance that you’d be there to say that
transatlanticism and restless heartstrings
are nothing in the face of everything we could
be. and it may be selfish, but honey if you think
i’m the best thing you’ll find, i won’t make it right
by turning to the door. you say that miles don’t
matter, but i’m living proof that sometimes words
just don’t cut it, and if it takes a thousand
to comprise a picture, i don’t want to ask
how many make a life.

i want to say something that’ll echo across the
ocean, something about wandering with you into
an intrepid demesne of reciprocated adoration
or stepping into this night’s amorous fantasy,
but the wind is slashing through the window and blowing out
our matches. shotgun in your car, crepuscular light
casting silhouettes on your cheek, burning both ends
of our candle with cigarettes and speed, shockingly alive
and ready to die for just one more time like this.
i ask if this is it, and you say that nothing
else exists; this pontiac, your pale hand
in mine, our truncated hourglass
is our exquisite solipsism,
and i know if we open the door we’ll step into
a terrible void
tantamount to tomorrow’s reality.


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