11-03-2008 Archie orders a triple dose of single malt with the worst Scottish accent ever.

Were space but all we needed, I would tear
it from the stars. And though the distance spanned
galactic amplitudes, I’d wrap your hair
one million, million times with vastless strands.

Shift by myrmecoid shift I can retreat
from you, but padding steps will still relate
us by the inch. Don’t trust our measured feet
to launch us to a world that separates

us from our emptiness. For we are space.
No choice could force two thin clouds on the edge
of skyless wonders to join hands, embrace
and whisper ages of the moons they pledge

their love will live beyond. We are here now -
no further than the closest thought allows.