telephone

we talk about skin & the boys 
we no longer want to be in love with.
i lay on my stomach, girlhood style,
while we talk for hours on an after in august.
we decide we hate fireworks
& that sex is actually better without completion.
for years you have lived only inside my phone.
i hate the phrase "long distance"
& i replace it with "last distance."
without our flesh, what do we become
to each other? shadows? banana leaves? 
suite cases? you are chasing a boy 
to boston. i am chasing a burning house. outside,
the sky is orange from forest fires in canada.
i become increasingly aware
i will probably never see you again.
there was a chance earlier this year.
i was in your town. i was sitting
at a bus stop eating my own hair. i could
have called you. instead, i kept running.
i hate the word "adult" because it is always 
handcuffed to "being an" adult which i think
is just what the world uses 
to steal us from each other. i talk
about all my friends like lovers because
we are. not like candle-lit mouths
but like running from the furnace. 
when we hang up, i walk from room to room.
log on to my computer to 
be an ouroboros for the night,
scrolling until i see a picture of you.
the film reel blanket. i hope you follow him
to the city & i hope it is everything you crave.
call me after & tell me what
the sky smelled like where you are.
mine in still a bonfire. my lungs 
like two shoes kicked off at the front door.