BOS to LAX to MEL

For Nikola

An ocean and a decade rest between us, that’s 11,000 milesand a generation. Everybody has something to say about it.

I lay next to her in bed, her sleep-tongue licks her lipsevery few minutes and her eyebrows move as though

they have tasted something delicious,like vanilla or bourbon.

Tonight she sleeps with her mouth half open.The globe on the nightstand backdrops the shine on her lips

making it look like she’s drinking the pacific,closing the distance that will separate us.

I am learning to love her in kilograms, centimeters,millimeters, Celsius, wrong-sided and accented.

She reaches for me, thumb stroking the inside of my wristas though the raised tattoo ink is real feathers.

I run my hand over her identical raised ink lines,and the smooth white scars that rest beneath them.

She’s dreaming and unaware that I am learning herin tiny details, at once familiar and foreign.

I repeat them now, and every nightto lull myself to sleep—

kilos,centimeters,millimeters,Celsius,left-sided,“bettah”sleep-reachsad hands,wrist scars,drink the pacific.