I am tired of missing you,
the exercise of the distance.
Like a cat,
returning to it's bowl
no more than five minutes after emptying it,
you are a temporary figure now,
that cannot claim object permanence.

That someday,
poured into a ramekin
like honey and soap,
is numbed by the relentless and
staggered steps
of the hour.

Lift your eyes up, to the horizon
where the plane flattens
into a thin line
and the future lays blue
and final.