By l.shields, desim@hotmail.com
Date: 30 September 1998

tempestuous

I've learned to pack for 24 hour notice,
jeans, socks, books
what you need to survive for a week---
only that bag is way too small love.

I can't fit in that duffle,
would smother through the fabric
and I assume that I'm one of your
bare essentials
because you've become that.

You need food, air, water, and shelter.
I need food. And you.
I need air. And you.
I need water. And you.
I need shelter---
and that is you all over.

You're the port on storm tossed seas,
the light at the end of the proverbial,
a gourmet snack, or a stable of life,
and I tell myself that a week is not so long
when we've had so long so far,
and still have a life besides.

But I have been a week without you,
have even known two to pass
without your eyes, or your smile,
or the scent that is you.
And time has slowed to creeping,
and my laughter rings shallow
to even my ears.
I am an impatient wench at best,
and love you best a hand's touch away.