Distance, the kind you can run your fingers through, here is a secret,
the space between us was bridged by the wingspan of a Monarch in full
flight the day it reached the oyamel, knowing it would never see and taste
another sun drenched northern flower in the July heat, another secret,
the quick flutter the eye makes when it sees a shadow that isn’t there, that second
splits itself a thousand times, that has always been the distance between us
in real time.
Burlesque Press 