Hours upon hours and miles spread
between two small shiny red pins on a map.
Asphalt and ground span to create a gap
hitched and held together by a Red Thread.
Despite all the distance that must be tread

there is steady beat, a pulse, a clap
in the still chests of those who lie entrapped
in the sheets of a silent static bed.
The lovers, the dreamers, they sleep so still
as if dreams could close oceans or seal holes.
In dreams they are joined in spite of ill will.
There lies no gulf, only darlings and souls
that are knotted by bonds to hold and fill
hearts to say that love cures distance’s toll.