In the morning we sat with your friends
at breakfast and I remember how your eyes
kept sliding back to me
as if, dressed in your old T-shirt
and my last night’s jeans, I was not
just any skinny girl but someone
who was beautiful. We texted
each other back and forth that whole day
and sent pictures of our textbooks,
the blue sky, the backs of people’s heads.
At night my mom said Did you talk to her
or just text her, and I had to stop
because the differences to me
were not immediately obvious. Of course
I miss the sound of your voice
and burying my face in your neck
as you sleep, but these days we take
what our lives give us, and what
our lives give us is mostly distance.
It would take me a solid month
to walk from my room to your doorstep.
Instead I sleep on my right side,
knees to chest, waiting for
the alert tone I assigned you
to break the warm silence of my empty room.
Our electronics orbit us
and beam messages to one another,
so that I move through space and time
with my laptop strapped to my back
and my phone in my left hand,
secure in this knowledge:
that we are each other’s favorites,
each other’s yellow hearts,
and every one of the sixteen thousand
messages we’ve sent during the past year
has left its mark
on pillows and browser histories.
My queued posts remind me
never to stop loving you.