I wish you were up,
That I would roll over
To see your eyes staring back.
That you would run your fingers
Into the dark cobwebs in my mind,
Work your fingertips into the tangled thoughts
And pull at them, untying my day, easing the night away.
I wish I could wrap you into my arms when it’s blustery out.
To burn as a beacon guiding you home when you storm,
Find strange crockery that somehow sings to me of you,
To be strong enough to move your couch in.
Couching meaning in pidgin argot,
Fused from shared memories.
To dress the nape of your neck
With warm whispers
Far after white whiskers
Grow over long.
From six feet away
Our fingers won’t touch
And your perfume is more lysol than lilac,
You have found new ways
To hide your smile.
But your eyes seem so blue,
Poking out above your surgical mask,
Peeking through the shutters in your bedroom,
Making this more tantric
Than I’d intended,
Standing on the street below.
As the world rages around us,
A tragedy of mistakes taking
Thousands of lives
Just an hour west of here,
But so quiet in these gentle breezes
Waiting for the quarantine to lift.
Wanting to draw you near.