It pains me to know you’re hurting
further than my arms can reach,
that I am unable to protect you with the entire
span of the Pacific between us,
that no number of emails or texts
or FaceTime minutes
can bandage the bruises
he hammers into your skin.
There are days I think of you
until the expression on my face
is a postcard he will not let you read:
I wish you were here,
I wish you were here,
I wish you were here.
I keep three clocks set to your timezone
as reminders
that my 2ams
are your almost middays,
that while the moon wanes in this sky
you are under the sun someplace else,
feeding breadcrumbs to birds in a park
wishing for wings of your own
and I imagine that for a fraction of a moment,
you’re not so afraid.
Fly home to me,
where the hands that hold you will tremble
with passion not violence.
where you will not be a possession,
but the universe I inhabit,
Fly home to me.