I was busy, feeling sensations and pleasure
I was busy doing nothing but being, with you
Saying nothing, but gazing and touching your hand and kissing the nape of your neck.
I was filling up with longing and emptying again, over and over, like the watering can.
I missed the poetry, with terror
As though it would never reappear,
As though it was a time that had passed.
I have missed you, though, in the same way-
With terror that it might be lost.
I am learning that some things just need to be trusted
To be there, even if you can't sense their presence in the moment.
A poem appears through a pen and onto paper
And you appear, and what is between us, through fingertips and onto skin.
I know I can trust the poem, and you, to reappear.