I sit bent before a screenflickering with imagery
that means less to me
than a moment spent
by your side;
our bodies bent
together, legs entwined
fingers crossed, yours between mine,
eyes casting from screen to eye
to catch the spark reflected inside.
I try to remember why
in seven days we spend five
twenty six miles apart, you and I.
Nine hours lost each day
to work and freeway
when life lives nearby
on a couch, in a house,
where we make ourselves
right.
My spirit dies inside each day
to be restored by the way
your bag settles, your lips press
against mine, your dress
falls to the floor, and we fall
together, alone, in our home,
no twenty-six miles
between you and I.