My Self

I miss them most at night.
The only problem is, at night

when grey clouds are barely visible against the black
of velvet, when my roommate lies still, breathing
evenly, when my feet and heart are cold

they can’t talk to me. They sleep 5,000 miles
away, 6 hours ahead, 12 hours in flight
across the sea.

Time is the divide,
the chasm we can’t cross.
It no longer takes
3 months for a word
to wing its way across the waves
— only ink stuck to paper,
not pixels —
but tell my heart that.
Tell the weight inside my ribs
it should beat for itself, should be
independent.
Alone.