Pretty Girl Distance

I have a problem with the distance.
The 4 steps from the bed 
to the door
is ok.

But the calculated miles
that I can't walk with quiet
footfalls
are not.

The idea of foreign parties
and pretty girls I've never seen
wrenches my insides
like a quick bullet.

The land of approximately 
one-thousand lakes
is a far, low cry
from my golden plains,
rolling suburbs.
I would like very much
to reach across
the many squares
of farm fields,
and the many grazing cows
and poke you in the shoulder,
don't you
dare
forget about me,
I'd like to say.

I imagine the letters
I'll send you.
Buy new stationary,
a blue pen 
and practice my penmanship
so my pretty alphabits
will keep you close to me,
I will nestle you up into
the curve of a q
or a g.

All the many miles
and feet and inches
for maybe nothing at all.
Maybe I didn't feel it right,
maybe you didn't say the nice things
and I am a walking illusion.

Perhaps the pretty lake country
will change you,
or the hot Ohio summer
will change me.

Perhaps winter will come and
we'll meet in the snowflakes
and you'll tell me there
weren't even any pretty girls
at all.