For now I have decided to not decide.
I trace the distance between us
on newspaper weather maps.
We are two inches apart.
I bundle myself in
thinking of high school science,
picturing continents billions of years ago
refusing to remain stationary,
drifting and colliding until
east as a poorly folded road map.
My reluctant roots could be roused
by grinding plates, earthquakes, pumping lava,
steam rising from the ocean.
I listen to wind and crickets,
waiting for tremors.