it's been three days

It's been three days now,
and you press still into me
- my fingers still trace the stubborn,
urgent curves of your body,
my palms are yet pregnant with your shape.

It's been three days now,
and you're rushing away from me
- I can see the rumpled halo of your black hair
reflected in the train window,
that ragamuffin smile,
those serious, astonished eyes.

You're not gone forever
- a weekend, London, your cousin
- yet I'm descended, adrift,
dowsed in the tide of your absence,
time-wrecked, each second
another gaping hole in my side,
I'm leaking, listing
over and yet more over
awash in the awayness of you.

It's been three days now
- and I'm sleepless, restless, feckless,
a wandering half-souled spirit
without substance or continuity
like a patched piece of film,
like a dilapidated marionette
subject to squads of sharp anxieties,
a concatenation of bee stings,
what if? and what if? and what if?

So what, if.

Eternity gapes at my feet,
the rose-framed windows beckoning
into a sky
laced with the stars
of love's uncertainties.

It's been three days now and my skin pulsates
a wordless scream of sexual anarchy.

It's been three days now and I want
to hold you, hold you, hold you....

Forever.