Daydream Not Finished

Sometimes I want to fly

five hundred miles west, just

to tug on your sleeve and run

away. How else could I 

make you feel the way I do?

I still have your mother’s number, 

did you know that? I dial the digits

one by one, testing the accidental slip

of a finger the way I fought an impulsive 

brush of my thumb against your cheek.

I remember the day I won 

it in a bet, adrenaline streaking 

your eyes and your breath and the way 

you chased me shouting, begging me 

not to text anything too crazy.

You tackled me and we rolled 

in the snow, our legs interlocking 

the way they do in movies. When I was 

finally trapped, you let out your signature 

laugh that was really more reminiscent of 

a wheeze, white powder caught in your wavy hair.

Now that it has melted there’s an ocean 

between us, but mother nature didn’t put it there.

If I had the strength, I’d grab a bucket and scoop 

all the water out. It’s funny, because 

you already know how to swim. 

Why don’t you then? Swim, I mean.