Manic - A Book of Poetry

Week One

Week One

It's been one hundred sixty-seven hours,

thirty-one minutes, as many seconds as it takes

for my lungs to fill with air waiting for his scent.

It never comes. It can't traverse the 5, 695 miles,

neither can I. Drive I-40 through Texas, stop in Louisiana

dip my feet in the Gulf of Mexico and wonder if the sun

shines as brightly on him, breeze ruffles his hair and lifts

his jacket like my dress flutters in humidity and minnows

dance around my feet.  Roll my windows down in North Carolina,

tell a stranger my story in Connecticut. I'll dive into the Atlantic,

stare across the vast space separating me from the comfort of his bed

and his kisses on my forehead. Memories of that Chinese restaurant

patio, sitting next to the heater, his jacket sliding over my arms snuggled

in wicker chairs and fleeting eye contact. Breathe in salt water, his body

wash how he complained about the hot shower water. Dunk my head.

Feeling of him holding the shower head over me, dark tendrils blocking

my vision "okay, that's enough" , his laugh. "I can picture

your face right now." So can I. Smiling under starlight, staring over at me

and my cheeks flush from cold ocean water and regret that I didn't kiss him

goodbye. I can't get there. I'm stuck in a desert and watching

beautiful sunsets and hearing coyotes howl and wonder if they cry for lost,

not love. Two strangers meeting under florescent lighting, spending days

feeling him move my hair from my shoulder, kiss my earlobe. I howl.

Silently, patiently. One hundred sixty-seven hours, fifty-five minutes,

as many seconds as it takes for him to turn off the water, raise my head,

watch the sun set over mountains he'll never see.