they say we are only six people apart.
but what does it matter when my voice
fades as soon as it reaches the friends
of my friends’ friends? you will never
hear the words that i want to whisper
to you on the coney island boardwalk.
they say we are only seventy-two degrees
apart. except that on the school globe,
every distance is short. my arms cannot
reach three thousand miles to hug you,
catching sunrise on the brooklyn bridge
with your cute twin-lens reflex camera.
they say… it does not really matter what
they say. all the degrees of separation
lose their relevance in a place shared
with an unrepentant stranger, espoused
at the wrong time for the wrong reasons.
loneliness is easier in an empty bedroom.
hidden pilcrow 