a meter away is like a mile of quickening ford,
an isolated inch is even distant to me now, my love.
looking at your face, retracing each step to your eyes,
i hesitate to blink, that my sight will not find you again.

arms length, i breathe deeper the words of your scent,
drowning the mind with the sound of your distant lips.
night time offers the sea charged with question marks
while weekends spell the long stare at the lonely moon.

work becomes a point of arrivals, of departures,
an everyday death and resurrection terminally combined.
the comings and the goings an affair of forgetting,
the goings and the comings an affair of remembering.

to be there, and not there, and to be far away,
to think you have them, and to think of losing them,
over the slippery streets, over the noose of lampposts,
over cul-de-sacs of buildings and desperate avenues.

how suddenly the night loses its distance, its light
how indifferent the stars become on their wanton flight,
above my pen, mocking senselessly the ticking of a clock
now solemnly placed in the bindings of your skin.

what streets will lose you then, my love, my dream?
what lamppost will suggest the sorrows, my constellation?
how many busy signals will telephone lines offer me?
windows stare blank, and buildings will never smile.

no poetry will divide distance, no poetry can unite it,
separated we are, distant like an ever quickening ford.
whether on corners of nameless streets, endless tunnels of phone line,
lampposts with their pale lights, or windows closed for the night.