I've become accustomed
To the way the water tastes,
The open sky,
And the wind pulling loose my hair,
But not the distance.
No, not the distance.

I wonder if you made it out of the fog.
I am still waiting for your words.
Keep running through Rhode Island.
Bring me the beauty of the world.

You are forever nostalgic
For your past future self.
This is not where you were going.
Never how you thought you'd end up.

Spring never sprung
And winter wouldn't come
Which just leaves
You
You
You
Here in the heat

Five hundred sixty seven point three
is the number of miles
between you and me.
(But our hearts have
never been closer.)