We can close the three-hundred and some odd mile gap
and stand silent for a second with our
                brainwashed gazes, glassy and glazed.
I’ll drive five hours to find the boy with the tired eyes—
the boy who made me promise.
                It’s for keeps.
We can spread a blanket and I’ll show you
the big and little dippers in the soil sky
                (they’re all I know how to find).
We can touch and whisper in a composition of exhales
and our two tongues that hide behind our four lips—
                yours that mask the gap I don’t mind,
                mine that I bite until purple and bleeding—
will drip with nectar, syrupy and saccharine,
which we will cup in half moon hands.