Seven hundred and forty-eight
(give or take)
kilometres of distance. My fingers
are starlike, longing for orbits of their own—
how can I feel gazed upon:
I have lived all these years
as a child.
My small body curled in a king-size hotel bed.
The plastic bottles of pale green conditioner.
Miniature gin, a paper seal
across the toilet seat.
I want so much to be
historical
to myself
although I know
that no-one
gets to feel this new, to feel this first
at thirty.
What is this then,
this fragile morning?
What of the cost, if I am
enviable?
What might we carry
in the radio waves of our own pulses,
our own dry-skinned digits,
in the spaces
where we coalesce
and where we long, we long
and wonder?
