it's always bedsheets as poor substitutes.
The miles might not measure up
but the distance is great than notations
on a map, on a heart, on an expense claim.
When the calling echoes from the same corner,
how is it we don't find ourselves there?
Under ceilings of constellations and polyester,
drinking in lunar shadows and plum lipsticks,
it's not the love that feels the heat, but the death.
I feel the frost nip at my hands and cheeks,
but the blood won't rush in.
I need you to let it burn me,
and promise to follow with the fire.