like disparate strings in a theory of discourse,
like silence or sex,
you and i clutch for company
while having nothing to compare it to.

what is it we own here?
no property, no intellectuality,
no time left to change the future unless
it's the entirety of time at our feet,
only waiting to be made useless.

i am a harsh drumbeat,
a crashing crunching desire to move forward,
to keep the feet in line.
your feet drag:
your spirit lags:
i am waiting, i am standing and waiting
and learning patience and becoming
steadily more wasted.

step one, build memories:
lake erie, a summer night grown cold with depth.
driving across the tidal basin at night, towards possibilities.
reunions in airports, tight hands, easy smiles.

step two, build future:
learning where to walk carefully and where to breathe easy.
finding new quirks, new frustrations.
having the same fight eight different months until we get it right.

step three, build habit:
i can only always come to you when sad, when lost.
i am growing in talent at interpreting few words, fewer thoughts.
i remember, i expect, i relearn your body every month.

and if i am becoming a shell,
if you remove the shrilling snare from my heartbeat,
if some days i feel that
we are too far apart to ever come together--
it is either a learning experience, or a great lack
of humanity and creation.