Do you remember just how gingerly
We walked the tropics in such great
Circles, and spent too much on towels,
Tequila, and talking to strangers about
Moments that belong in a velvet pouch,
In a drawer somewhere? I looked into the
Horizon and become at once aware I was
An amoeba on a dust mite of an island,
Flanked and pincered by an ocean, and a
World away that just as well could not.
Your fingertips and nails dug in,
And left the remnants of themselves
In shoulders, biceps, back and
Neck in different euphoric degrees
Of bloody destruction; I left the
Hot tub on all night, and in the morning
Almost had to fight the front desk guy
When he insinuated that the problem was
Not some cheaply made polycarbonate
Chinese pump that ran like shit, but me.
In these developed memories, I find that
I was further from before then than I am from
Now to paradise again. The skin still rips and
Shreds, but differently, and this time, and these
Multiple others, there are layers to flesh,
And there are hash marks for reference.
I could circumnavigate these latitudes, and yes
I know eventually they need to intersect, but
How can I determine how quickly to walk, and
How far to step? Our course forever’s had
Some overgrowths, but nothing too involved
To clear the roads.
Yesterday it seemed, to anyone else, our elbows
Touched in passing for the only time in what has
Felt like never ending months. “An illusion—”.
We stretched until we broke, not realizing the impossibility of overlapping antipodes.