She is fashioning tourniquets out of typewriter ribbons and spaghetti.

850 States Away

My lover
is a bundle of justified worry.
Fingernails chewed to the nub,
breathing erratic.
She is the reason
massage was invented.
I am postcards away from her.
My pony express merely hobbles.
I hold the phone to my ear
and hear the string quartet
in her exhale;
drags of deep cello
in her concern.
I wish I could Saturday Morning Cartoon
her better.
Form of a bathtub;
shape of a carafe of white.

My lover has paper cuts
on her checkbook. She is fashioning
tourniquets out of typewriter
ribbons and spaghetti. She
is concocting recipes
out of phantom arms and stitches,
enough gumbo to convince
her that she is full
for now.

Until then, I send her as much
calm as can fit in an envelope.
When she rips it open, tufts
of Oklahoma sky drift to her
ceiling. Alphabets spill out
to better cushion the bruises
from all those cruel numbers.

Right now, we are photographs
and mixtapes. We are ghosts
in each other’s rear view mirrors.
We are dirty whispers and tin can
giggles.

Someday
we will graduate to park benches
and pillow fights. We will be
welded uneven and patchwork.
Gorgeous, necessary rust.

-Rob Sturma

via this amazing tumblr