As a child, I read about folding space,
And foolishly thought nothing of it.
My mind bent spacetime as neatly as any tesseract,
And the stubborn stillness of my material form was, ultimately,
Immaterial.
Would that I could grasp that fabric as firmly again, now,
That I could take hold of distance and drag myself along,
Cross this ocean and these borders one handhold at a time.
"It is by will alone I set my mind in motion," they say,
But the body stays relentlessly put, and there's the bland, Spiceless rub.
Metric spaces be damned,
If I could erase the notion of distance by love and desperation alone,
I would.
Once more, the bitter tang of irony--
The quintessence of the fourth dimension
And the absense of any dimension at all,
Kept apart by thrice-accursed 3-space.
Our forced containment in flesh and blood
Has not just our separate hells to answer for,
But our hell of separation besides.
How bastardously typical of it, to foist upon us its trials
Yet allow us nothing of its comforts.
It knows that, were we our proper selves together,
It would not survive.