2.26.14
touching your hair, your face,
your warm calves in the morning,
about not watching you scrutinize a redness
in the mirror, not running barefoot
from your apartment in the middle of the night,
not holding you when you cry, and crying,
and about not coming up behind you
when you're getting water from the fridge filter,
not pulling onto the side of the highway
to make you an emergency electrolyte
drink out of leftover juice and salt, not standing
in the windy terror of the breakdown lane
because you've gotten dehydrated,
about not taking photos of you in the orchard,
in the kitchen with your hands dirty, with half curls
on sand cliffs at sunset, not sneaking up on you
at work with cookies, not hiding my face in you
during gross parts of TV shows, not kissing you,
not kissing you, about not holding your hand
over the parking brake, not feeling your head
on my arm when I'm driving us home
at night, tonight I want to be near you, the nearness
of you a thing that brings light, the kind of light
I'm always looking for in rooms, turning off fluorescents
and opening windows, you are that,
specific and undeniable, about the heart in me
that knows you, wants you, love
of the sort that can't be quiet,
how to be away from you with this love?
How to bear it?
