Porcelain

In these days where distance has changed us: one into an astronomer,
the other to star light – it is our simple tools that let us measure
how long it takes a notes weightless analog to make us remember our place

willingly becoming something vastly different: now a knotty pine,
and a part in wintry clouds –  seldom is it said that proximity
is what keeps us entangled and aware of what each provides

as separate pieces from the clay: you've been molded into fish shapes,
and I a man in a boat – it's a game of patience and caution, each careful
not to make any sudden moves lest we end up lead astray by ripples

sent out by familiar shapes hiding in shadows: a spider in a window,
a boy looking through the pane – a different sort of infatuation
of wanting to examine, touch, and prod but the glass keeps us apart

like lovers in a Wes Anderson film: now you're an awkward youth,
and I a mislead romantic – it seems fated that we too would find solace
in drawing pictures that color our innocence in an inviting light

keeping in tradition with art: a man with pen and brush at an easel,
a pin-up girl with a flirt in her smile – as if conjuring what isn't there
makes the times when it's next to you even more real than vivid flights of fancy

imagining a better world for both of us: me in love with eyes, lips and curves,
you a woman doing what comes natural – when we're close enough
you will know me by touch and I will know you by your soft and delicate skin.