I
folded my
map of the United
States into a perfect triangle
so that Arkansas and France would
overlap. I hoped this would mean that I could
be closer to you, by means of magic or something much
bigger than both of us (something neither of us believed in, but
if it meant we could see each other, then hell, I'm a believer). I traced my
fingertip over that map until my skin was raw and the color of ink, but still, you
remained over there and I, here. In that moment, I swore to myself that I could never
believe in miracles or magic or God or fate or love or hope or promises. Then, the doorbell rang.