i listen to you breathing
across the
miles between us

because I do not know
how to tell you that
some afternoons without you I curl
up topless beneath the blankets
and I curl up so small

                 but it is never small enough to guard
                 against the wind from the still broken window
                 and the things I do not say to you:

                                 when you are here I stay awake when you
                                 think I have fallen asleep to memorize
                                 the cast shadows on your face or the
                                 way our hands meet under the covers
                                 on your bare chest rising and falling
                                 (and I curl up as small as I can but
                                 it isn't small enough to keep out the draft
                                 from the window or my own thoughts

because I cannot help but fear that from
the miles between us
your voice brings more fear than solace

               because I cannot imagine you
               lying in bed nights without me
               smoothing the wrinkles from the sheets' corner
               wishing it was my hair over my back)