Tell the Miles to Go Fuck Themselves

Is it weird
that I imagine you
next to me in my bed?
We’re not naked
but spine to spine,
trying to fall asleep
between a considerate
layer of clothes
and the heavy ache 
of not being allowed
to learn each other’s skin.
I would love to forget
everything
except the bite of your lip,
eyes begging my mouth
to introduce itself to yours,
to cross your boundaries,
our moans a flavor
on each other’s tongues.
Other times,
we use our arms
to translate the things
we choke on.
You are three hours
and three-thousand miles
ahead of me,
a burden rooted in topography
and our inside out pockets.
We always tell the miles
to go fuck themselves,
a curse on every bright green
highway sign between
we can’t
and
tell me what you want.