Distance and the heart

This is what you would call

a place 'in between.'

So,

you make the badly brewed tea

taste like sunshine

and the million-dollar champagne

float in the sky.

I share a mimosa with my shirt

and the song that plays

through my earphones

is chorused with cries.

I smile,

because you'd tell me it's all part of the experience,

and that it's the rich who have it bad,

because they'll never know what it feels like to fight for something,

like you do.

Still,

I wouldn't mind a first-class seat,

straight to you.

Could you imagine,

me, jumping from the plane

and descending down an updraft

to where you wait

with your arms outstretched

and sprawled across a picnic blanket

that's already laced with beach sand.

The drive back to your place

is a space in between -

I tell you stories about transient strangers

and the school of fish I saw

leaping through the clouds.

You laugh because I'm a romantic,

and I laugh because you're a mad man.

I've grown accustomed to the ways

that you turn my tales into fables

and weave them into

our goodbye wishes,

"tell the fishes I said hello?"

"There's not a cloud in the sky," I tell you in earnest, "no cotton waves for them to swim through."

"They'll find a way -"

I rest my head on your chest - as I did on that first night - and apparently, I'm a witch because that's all it took to get you to love me.

I can feel a chuckle brewing in the cauldron of your chest.

"The fishes will be there," you tell me with confidence,

"they'd never miss a chance

to dance

for you."