come from way above

I sat at this picnic table today surrounded by tall hay.

The sun danced hot on my skin.

I don't know why in that moment but my longing for you was palpable. 

It burned a hole through my heart and dripped onto my hands.

Desire.

Not even for your flesh.

Just to breathe the same fucking air in the same room as you.

Just to look at you.

And then I wished I had love letters from you, something, anything to remember, to feel connected, to hear your voice echo in my ear, like that night I held the phone so tightly to my face, like it was you I was holding. 

Why did we not see each other that morning again? Either morning? Whatever were we thinking, dear one?

And then I remembered. 

I did have a love letter. 

I had a song. 

You spoke-sang the lyrics of the entire song, the way your voice always turned words into poetry.

If I could do anything differently I'd have recorded that conversation so when I thought I might forget I could press play and the truth in your voice would fill my room again. 

Like it did so very briefly so many days ago. 

So I pressed play on Tom Waitts instead. 

Because he said what you no longer could. 

And it was the same as looking at you.

Hearing the words you so carefully sang out. 

Did I send you the other song? The one that makes me think of you?

And this has all been good for me in some way. 

Learning to be content with so little. 

And learning to long peacefully, without it keeping me up nights anymore.

Now your image just falls asleep with me, tucked under the lace border of my sheet, my phone always on, in case you ever can't sleep again.

Sadness has been replaced by acceptance. 

With a dash of hope. 

Always hope.

I know.

I'll look into those piercing brown eyes again. 

And you know too.

The part of you that finally falls asleep with my smiling image nestled underneath your arm, the slightest lift at the corner of your mouth as your face drifts off in a smile. 

Miles apart, and somehow even more connected.

Sensing.

Burning.

Building.

Something was happening. 

Was going to

happen.

Waiting. 

Wanting. 

Wanting.

Needing.

But waiting. 

Always waiting. 

Realizing

I can only let go as much as you have.

And you want me more than you ever have.

I heard it. 

Your souls cry for mine.