I measure
our distance
in habits
I break.
They ask:
“when?”
I say
long enough
I’ve stopped
hunting zodiac
for fish.
When
they ask
how long,
I say:
so long
I zip
myself up.
I measure
our distance
in memories
of muscle.
They ask:
“when?”
I say
so recently
our hands
still try
to touch.
When
they ask
how long,
I say:
I spin
the ring
I buried.
I measure
our distance
in bone
and body.
They ask
“when?”
I say
too long.
His body
is ash
without me.
When
they ask
how long,
I say:
A heartbeat.
A heartbreak.
Not long.
rarasaur 