A Missive

by sibyllene

You're away like a season
or a lost minute and I'm
here with my finger nipped
between two pages, neck craned back,
toes drinking in the heat of sun-poured
wood, still warm.

I hope where you are you suddenly
pause, look up from
the table, hope you
catch the warm ghost
hands of mine
touching your hair
small as a may flower.

I hope you go to the window,
fill your lungs with
the smell of this evening, leaves
and gasoline, the lush twilight
of early summer, I hope

I'm carried to you on
every riff of balmy air,
grumbling with frogs
and overheard conversations,

soft as a moth, as a
wave lapping,
as lips, as a
heartbeat.