Long Distance

I wonder how.

I've come to this tomb,
drawn by its perfume:
 
the hermit's wet dream,
a holy grail, ecstatic, 
singing until reflections
become open lovers.

But I grow tired even of them.

Am I only here to bear witness
to glass empires?

To catch an echo of empty cups
asking my purpose?

(Maybe, maybe ...)

But how have I enamored you,
strung between the half-lives
of former selves,
where old constellations 
stand minutely changed?

Seasons have passed,
and the footprint above
my grave is unfilled,
until now.

And in the depths,
plastic flowers wave
until they sweat,
becoming life,
able, finally,
to die.

As a heart beating alone,
making acrylic grass
grow for the first time ...

Without a body,
how can one enamor
another?

Yet waiting
across the divide,
a ghost inside,
a weightless hand spreads
the wings of your moon.

As I lay thinking 
in this valley 
of forks and knives,
rising like the Last Sun
over false Earth,
false distance, 
the wall stains
become divination; 
the silence, your hair
brushing my skin

And see?

You have enamored me.