i have this tendency to hide behind tall buildings.
skyscrapers are home, but your lap
is the most familiar place i will ever know.
when Thomas Edison invented the light bulb,
he did not account for your smile.
the brilliance of the two can blind,
subsequently terminating his patents
and deeming light fixtures illegal.
every time i'm on the highway past midnight, i'm reminded that
the difference between us is a 300-mile span of lampposts.
i'm sure that Thomas Edison didn't consider this, either.
if he had, he would have used that mind of his to invent teleportation.
he wouldn't want me stranded in a bed too large for a single body,
shivering with thoughts of damp fields and crunchy leaves and interlocking fingers,
mumbling about how quickly we turned upside down.
still, i think of you in the moments before i do something brave
like tell a secret or hold someone's hand during a movie.
you taught me that forgiveness comes in floods.
my eyes are a tsunami-tide away from dragging me back to the starting line.
i keep telling myself that time will sort things out
into neat, little piles as it always does. but eventually,
time will tire of dealing with aches it doesn't own.
i will be left with messy hair
fingernails chewed raw
and a copy of Where the Red Fern Grows that i won't read.
you will be changing the oil in your car
recalling every word i've ever written about you
and avoiding all of my favorite songs.
the last time i went on vacation,
the walls of Jordan whispered your name.
i did not plead with them. i did not cry.
instead, i wrote i miss you on every brick,
mouthing the words inaudibly over and over again,
praying that you could read lips.
i have already forgotten the title of your favorite book.
you are traveling more and forgetting the shape of my face.
we will never be right-side-up again.