A piece of me
is on a plane to China,
shifting awkwardly in
economy class.
His ipod dreams
I seek to punctuate,
with the missile missives
of a mad woman.
He calls me crazy,
though he knows,
we’re in this madness
together:
Where we no longer
have the spaces of ourselves
but this sea of
something.
It’s our joke
that we can’t swim,
but see how well
we float.