Sandwiched

We picked up a sandwich
at a station a thousand miles from home
--no matter where that may be.
The hills spread, yellow and thin,
underneath our anger.
And just where the plains ended
a new pain began,
of sun, white, and winding stone.

At the top I found you
scoping the world with an ache
I never saw for me.
I looked towards your glance,
the looming towers and dusty grass,
sandwiched between your life
and another you'd rather live,
between the sky
and always somewhere else.

I wasn't panting then,
running after you in every foreign tongue
we didn't speak.
I traced your gaze
like I could never the nape of your neck:
it ended in the shadow of a bell tower,
and began somewhere
far far from me.