Sunday morning.
A vague sense of myself,
And a clear vision of you.
You in the kitchen,
I on the speakerphone.
One image. One view.
Your face, your private smile.
One feeling. One longing.
For that you I first saw.
And for that expectation of life years,
That lights up when you are in it.
That lust for it,
That love for you.
One recollection. One sensation.
For that one song we would share.
For that warm friendship we would possess.
Don’t you think you stung too early?
And so I end,
Another pedantic poem,
For one fantastic you.
