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

Where we no longer
have the spaces of ourselves
but this sea of

It’s our joke
that we can’t swim,
but see how well
we float.