i watch the miles between Athens and Paris the way i watch

the Sharpie stains I once left on your sweater.

they make me think

of how i once drank out of your pores,

once felt the Tulip satin of your skin

underneath the Daisy cloth of mine.

we talked of adulthood stories then,

ones that were far too mature for us…

we weren’t missing enough (any)

ink or

words or

pages or

petals telling me if you loved me

to understand them.

and i remember you telling me about wide gaps

people sometimes had in their souls because they were missing

tragic-tale-leaking-mechanical-pencils

(tales about broken, glorious heroes and heroines).

so then i gave you stories

to laugh about with strange(r) friends,

gave you Clowns and Jokers and Silly Executions.

but i never gave you You,

because i was too afraid to let you out of hurricanes

and into mountains tattooed onto my soul.

but now i just want to see you perched on a mile in front of my bedroom,

right where you used to be.

i promise to break the glass windowpane (pain),

if i ever see you again.