On my bad days, I say to myself: “then you”.Sure, this now. But then you.I will keep tossing myself life lines.I will keep writing myself afloatuntil I don’t have to write a poem for every mile markerfrom here to California.You and I together is the most foolish thingI’ve ever hoped for. You and I apart is more foolish.When I can’t sleep at night, I dream upconversations with you. I never call. I never push.I try not to whine. I just write it all down.Sometimes I want to apologize for wanting you out loud,like too many people know the reasonsI am going to have laugh lines.Sometimes instead of distanced pillow talk,I want to curl up with the phoneand read you poetry. You say, “honey, how was your day?” And I say, “today I wrote another poem about your coffee cup mouth and all the ways you still keep me up at night.” I hear a sigh in your smile. You make a sound that reminds me of fighting with my bags at the airport; but you’re still too far away.