Victory is to the lips when it puffs a smoke

Only partially in the case of

Itunes playing Interpol’s PDA
(It’s a grim rite, to sleep, because

We are alone, and far away)

What is distance?

When you were sixteen, you were

reading Haruki, I was

meeting Ernest and James.

When you were spending lunch in the library,

I was finding bones

for my thesis.

Distance is hardly a

Facebook post away;

Not my relation to the air,

or the pen; is sometimes

a bus ride away; is death

and all of us, is the other side

of understanding.

That is, I can only understand you

If you were once away.

And that is, further, the potential for understanding

Is unending, because you are always away.

 

Distance is because

Holden’s smile I cannot see.

It is because spaces are

needed in sentences;

(again: why understanding

is the obverse)

Sundays are needed in a week;

Halftimes in basketball games (earlier, the Bulls trail the Pacers)

Tracking shots in Truffaut’s films;

“others” in us.

 

But these:

Distance shies away

When hitting the keys someone wears

When almost crying about loaf breads dogs eat

When smelling smokes someone smokes

When what exist are the dark and talk

When there’s a bottle of Gatorade and a can of beer

And palm geographies not meant for palm readers

Victory is to the lips when it puffs a smoke

When Kopiko powder turns to liquid and I drink

When pens create letters like these

When I fuck waters and I don’t sink

When all our hesitations are at the least.

 

Distance is a foe. And there is winning.


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