Longing

I want to see you

standing in the doorway
the sun lost in your hair
and hear you speak to me softly
with your eyes

to feel the warmth of your body
leaning into me, a towelturban
on your head, and your skin soft and damp
from the labour of a long hot shower

I want my lips to be sure, in the darkest night,
of the many paths that lead
from the nape of your neck
to the arch of your foot
and every dip and turn that lies between

I want to know in an instant

if you had held the phone or drunk from a cup
or walked through a room
by the wisps of your scent
you leave behind

I want my eyes to know your shadow
in a crowd, and my ears
to know the sound of you breathing
from deep inside a dream

to know how your lips
curl around a spoon, and how your fingers
fold around a book, and how your hair
falls suddenly across your face
when you’re washing up after dinner

I want to sit invisible in a corner
and watch your eyes change
as you write your stories, and hear the soft shuffle
of pictures becoming words
and words, pictures

to watch your head tilt back and your throat
yield ground, and to hear you sigh ‘yes’
as you step over the edge
of restraint, and dissolve
in my guileless adoration

I want to know exactly how your head
sits in the curve of my shoulder, how our arms
fit just so around each other
and how each time it happens, the world
as we knew it, disappears

About the author

Zunket

Compulsive proof reader and multi-tasker. Incapable of giving straight answers to most questions. Frequently awestruck by the awesomeness of the universe. Lover of seafood, wine, Jack Daniels and kadak chai. Urban gypsy. Sucker for inspired writing. Professional baby-sitter. Wannabe poet. Part-time dreamer. Full-time seeker of the ultimate truth.