shadow of sputnik

I want to love you without the aid of satellites
To reach out and touch not someone, but you

Pictures at an exhibition in my bed are not, I think, the same
No matter how sharp your digital smile
How familiar the sound of your breath, the wagon hitch in your voice when you come

Unruffled, untouched, in the shadow of Sputnik, are we
The space race reduced to this line, these miles, between your pillow and mine

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