when

a finger space, the distance floating on false
water, it is not a storm calling or a mountain falling.

the ground curves away, the road goes where it wants.

I am still counting the seconds after the flash

trying to get an idea of distance. that electric blur

of an afterimage jagged on my vision, my sight ruined

by the past. scraping across boundaries, moving

further from the remembered truth.

smudged fingerprints on a glossy photograph.

the evidence of longing. someone loved enough

to be held by more than the edge.

at what distance does a heartbeat

become irrelevant and can I count that high

.