tunnel breath

i miss driving beneath the mountains ribs
to reach you. we do not talk anymore
& it is for the best. hundreds of years ago
white men saw the mountain & thought she needed
a hole in her guts for all 
of us to walk through. that is the threshold
i used. the car was falling apart. once i pulled over
& called you. you did not pick up.
there were flowers in my throat. i picked them
as vigorously as i could. there should really be
at least eighteen words for love. ours was not
the kind with roots but with needs. 
i was lonely & so were you. the mountain 
is known now for her wound. sometimes i would
call you before the tunnel on purpose. 
i wanted to see if the call would get dropped.
only once did the signal carry through.
it is so human to try & test the limits of our voices.
from how far away can you hear me? i wish the tunnel wasn't
a passing place. i imagine it at night when a car
only slips through every hour or so. 
i wanted to walk with you there, the whole mountain
breathing above us. as a child my brother & i
always tried to hold our breath when we drove
through any tunnel. the longer ones resulted 
in gasps & desperate air. i had a dream once
of you & me walking in the tunnel. no flashlight.
just the moonlight on either side. you shook me
& begged me to take in air. i refused. i laughed.
we were underwater. i do not miss you 
at all which feels like a betrayal to 
the summer when everything felt urgent. 
i wonder why we learned to see tunnels as
always stretching? longer & longer. my favorite part
of the dropped calls is that most of the time
i didn't notice it. i would come out on the other side
of the mountain, dusk light orange & crashing,
talking to myself talking to you. i would pause,
knowing you weren't there. i would ask,
"hello? hello?" other cars spilled out behind me.
each one of their drivers gasping for air.