We didn't fall in love like most do,
in the confined spaces between bodies.
We fell in love through distance,
like quantum entanglement, particles
of spring affection bound together
by the electric sound of your videochat
laughter.
You said it first, you know,
though you don't remember. Chuckling
in your kitchen at some stupid joke I'd made.
I recall how my breath caught in my throat,
like cobwebs wrapped around answering
words. But they came later,
and by the time our bodies once again
inhabited a common space, it was too late for them.
You were my first.
But though we strolled
under stars, composed poetry together,
I did not know you,
nor you me. That came later.
Like the rushing of a mispronounced hurricane,
or the long, involved blossoming of orchids.
We never kissed. Though Sam—or was it Emily?—questioned and probed
and suspected.
Yet even if our bodies
never touched, I like to think our spirits did.
I like to think our hearts still carry pieces
of those constellations.
I like to think your pieces
bear my name.
Lista de imágenes:
1. Anka Zhuravleva, "The old suitcase".
