Even at the end of a good day, even with the windows open

Que triste es asumir el sufrimiento,
patético es creer que una mentira
convoque a los duendes del milagro,
que te hagan despertar enamorada.
                     –Ricardo Arjona

I cannot write beside you in bed at night.
It makes the distance of inches unbearable,
and in turn memories of cold December sun-
shine and high end hotel sheets unburied by verses
I thought I had forgotten, the realization
that some Guatemalan singer said it all
years ago: how it hurts, the distance, that although
I hear you breathe, you’re hundreds of miles away,
and on, and on, better words than my own,
and besides the sound of my typing keeps you
awake, huffing impatiently in the screenlight,
resenting me for such clichéd closeness,
for perhaps the failure to find the right analogy,
for yet another song I never showed you.

what i mean when we talk about the weather

 

i am writing the same poems
i was before i met you, where,
raining, i was then too pre-

sprung and ungainly and in-
congruent, lofting
plastic smiles

and polysyllabic line-
breaks despite the yellow
of my skirt. alas, you say,

and i like the letters in the word,
how they spell wings
in other tongues, but we

are far from flying,
drown down in our
respective sadnesses,

can’t remember
conjugations or cloud
patterns or what it was

to love easy. it must be
snowing hard, still,
somewhere.