Is a lonely, desperate hour
When the world lies still
But my brain buzzes.
My stinging eyes squint against
The glaring screen in my hand
I watch The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
The Mystery of the Dancing Men
One thousand, one hundred twelve miles away
Through the mystery of
She can see that I am awake
Her text floats across like smoke
From Holmes’ pipe,
‘I hear you stirring’
I snap off the movie.
I have seen it before
I know how this one ends.
We laugh through the ethereal
Wondering if we might look equally ridiculous
In the half light of full moon.
There’s an app for that.
We take pictures of our hair
And dart them to each other
Over nothing but air.
Giggling, at the risk of waking the kids.
Mine looks much like a baby duck
Glued atop my head
And I have a fat lip from my last
Fall into cemented snow drifts
Against an old psychedelic daisy pillowcase
Her tresses roll in perfect waves
Spoons of cashmere
Spun to the curve of her shoulder,
‘here’s where his soft curls ought be’
Her bubble mourns atop the screen.
We try one of those international coffees
And some chamomile tea
To force ourselves to sleep
Mumbling misspelled cathartic confessions
That we won’t remember in daylight
it’s akin to being together
as my smoldering lids fold
with her poet pleas
still clicking, warm, in my palm