The sun rises over me and sets over you.
If we were together we would see each other
but we aren’t so we aren’t and accepting this
is like eating tea leaves straight.
I say good morning to you;
you say goodnight to me.
You say it’s raining, wish you were here, too;
I say time struggles to pass without the thought of you.

If this were a novel, surely it would be
a tragedy, a crevasse of Atlantic between us,
a howling gap of continent--
distance the only thing keeping us from each other.
If this were a novel, still, I wouldn’t hesitate.
I would send two dozen letters, texts, phone calls,
every day for the rest of our lives,
and we could grow old, side by side,
only a few hundred, thousand miles apart.