What the boastful fail to say
About “a man at every port”
Is how a soul can crack
Between the vast distances

One beloved in [redacted] who feels
Like smooth liquor and cries
So softly when I rub his back
Because I cannot touch him much

To be greeted by the too-slim smile
Of another in [redacted]
Who screams my name with a vigor
As if to remind me I’m still here

A third to the West
Who I visit too infrequently
But whose spark is still bright
When I darken the door

One more is a ghost
Whose visage travels with me
Who’s made the living look pale
Since the day that he ghosted me

A painful plight to be totally free
To hold someone in the night
And to flee by late midday
Never whole or fully held