I wake to loneliness. It cuddled me all night.
I give my pillow a long peck. Tell it I am drunk in love.
I warm the leftovers. Serve a spoon of soup to the wind and say,
Come have a taste, Darling.

My lover answers from her sleep, in a city ten thousand miles from here.
She’s six hours behind. But I tell myself she’s awake.
And she answers. She eats the soup when I put the spoon in my mouth.
Delicious, she says, and kisses my forehead when I kiss the air.
In this Tango, I do the Waltz and Salsa.

At the pleasure park, I hold a book.
I pretend not to see lovers holding hands.
Or this pair seated on the thirsty grass, laughing at everything and everyone.
Or this brown gypsy playing the guitar, singing Ed Sheeran’s perfect to his lover,
his voice melodious like he swallowed a piano, his eyes closed.

I flip through the anthology in my hands, reading poems about America,
Wondering if it froze there last night.
Wondering what Georgia looks like in a map.
There is no place I would rather be.