I like the ache
of missing you;
the way it softens my bones,
leaves me warm and restless.
Cupping your voice on the telephone
in my hands,
pressing your smile to my cheek
like a cool cloth on a summer day.

My fingers entwined
in the curled cord,
the line that ties me to you,
spans miles of telegraph poles
holding hands.
The electricity beneath my skin,
crackling at the receiver,
at the damp cheek where I held your lips.