Maybe if I keep writing poems about you
I can construct the reality
where it’s all okay.
Where I can spend far too much time 
recalling the feeling of your hands on mine
Where I can imagine that the way you look at me
means what I think it might
Where the constraints of our real lives
are the things that are fiction.
In a poem
you can be anything 
My muse
My imperfect fantasy
My next self-destructive narrative 
I can be 
the one you lie awake thinking about 
No more than a river between us
Nothing
but the rocky banks
and the lights on the bridge
I can write it all.