on the subject of long distance

the flesh of you is inconvenient—
not beneath my fingers, or my mouth;
too far for even fingertips to reach,
straining. you are a theoretical exercise,
galatea without even stone, and yet—

you are beautiful and live in a house,
far away. I stand at my kitchen sink,
thinking of that place, yet uncharted,
where I would press my lips. you call
my name.
as though the ghost of me
needed reminding.