carry on

Because I’m writing about it.

Not about you.

Well—a little about you.

But the story is about everyone.

Characters I amalgamated

using others I know,

I’ve been with,

and my selves.

All my peoples

I moved to one city.

And that city

of similar weather,

on the opposite ocean,

of roses,

of you.

The setting I chose.

Because I know my city too well.

It’s not magic, nostalgic.

I’m not falling for it

like I am with yours.

Because it’s far away.

I miss it.

Writing, researching.

I’m back there.

I cross the arcing phone lines.

Northeast to Northwest.

I revisit the spoked plane routes.

I write for escaping.

Connecting letters.

Connect JFK to PDX.

It’s laying me over.

SLC, LVS.

Delaying me.

And the numbers:

1 to 10 digits.

Connecting.

Chapters I wrote: numeral-ed.

I’m blocked.

UTC -8:00 to UTC -5:00:

minus 3, take 3 hours away.

Deleting numbers.

To be with you is to go back in time.

Because you live in my past.

I’m Eastern.

Connecting Central, subtracting Mountain.

You’re Pacific.

And I’m writing my novel in real time.

I’m counting down.

Minus days, take away time.

To get to the end chapter,

the last letters, and no more numbered pages.

Because I’m living in two cities.

Yours: 3 hours in the past.

When I finish the book

I can live in mine:

3 hours, the future.

For now, I’m waiting, writing.

Canceling my outbound,

loving two cities.

Not returning from the past.

Because I’m living in two time zones.

Laying over, connecting.

I’m waiting at the gate.

I’m waiting to depart you.

photo1:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/142/329975640_c4d46eeae5_z.jpg?zz=1

photo2:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/171/376224617_fda51e48f4_o.jpg