I am 4:47 a.m., a cold, black coffee in a New York diner
where we create paper cities with napkins.
Your eyes are alive with caffeine and
our stomachs are cavernous,
valleys meander between our ribs.
You’re working on Paris with toothpicks and I–
I’m folding my origami skylines,
Sunrise is an Arctic light–
the world stiffens
and salt and pepper snow
falls on our little papyrus
I am 6:15 a.m., a steaming stack of blueberry pancakes
somewhere east of the ocean.
I’ve been working on London alone.