sometimes you show me photos
of the places you've been
and spout off stories of
how the tops of mountains
taste differently on the other side
of the ocean or how you saw
exactly the kind of dress i would love
in the window of a shop in japan.

but let me tell you,
every time i've tried to capture a moment,
and bottle it back to be relived in the
comforts of your living room,
the film always turns out blank.

your breath traces symbols on my skin,
highlighting key points on a map
that you've long since memorized.
but my arms are not a turnstile you
can pass through to arrive somewhere new.

it seems i've forgotten that
one heart cannot create a new time zone,
no matter how furiously it beats or
from how far away you can hear its echo.