Maps

300 miles was a blip.
First, it was west.
Then, it was southeast.
In neither direction did I really
understand the distance.
Our friendly game
of telephone remained —
no matter the change in route
or weather or time,
the reception and your voice
sounded the same to me:
clear, familiar,
just a shout away.
The string between our aluminum cans
was taut, but not uncomfortable enough
for me to notice the tension in the wire.

But the leap to the far-away west —
an actual ton of distance —
the mere thought of it
made my heart skip a beat.
I pictured it:
the string not taut, but snapped;
your voice muffled by static
or gone altogether;
where no shout from a mountaintop
could carry the words
that I was suddenly desperate to say —
“I love you,
and I’m sorry.”

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