I could send a voice note but you exist in the past
and there is no incubator that can nurture
premie words in its womb
till they are ready to go home.

The elements in their infinite
dance carry the sun from my sky
and leave it to shine in yours.

One may forget how we mark different
days of the calendar for exactly half
the day, every day, or somehow erase
the atlas of the world that is etched
between us but there is no wishing
away the many oceans that part us.

So how about I float my messages
as paper boats towards your distant shores?
There is always the chance someone
somewhere discovers a lost paper boat-mast crumpled, hull
flattened- and shares my story with others.

There is also the life-giving image
of the paper gently resting its cheek
on the water as it hums my messages,
the water blowing them skyward with a kiss
until they fall back to earth
in rivulets of reincarnated stories
until they fill all the oceans between us
until they pulsate in every inch that breathes.