With hindsight,
distance sometimes wears a halo
of affection.
After all,
something dark—
something ignorant—
connects the stars;
what must it feel like
to pass that gap
between them,
to love that thing most
which you'd never
come back to—
what sort of next-
level closeness
does that reflect?
*
If you were to watch me
from the porthole
of a fast enough rocket,
at a far enough distance,
would I smear out
like an arpeggio
of notes?
would the last thing I told you
remain ripe
in my throat?
When you go,
I can only hope to remain
frozen to this spot,
so that, from your point
of view,
I will always be
saying this.
