Waiting for my clothes to tumble dry
My fingers rest on the cover
Of a well-loved paperback,
And I think it is my only link
To you at this moment:
The novel and its pages of pencilled notes
In your swift script;
The book and these lines I write now.
At other moments there are other connections:
The champagne delight
That bubbles from my ribcage to my lips
When for the hundredth time
I read a note you've sent
At the end of a long day;
The times I have glanced at you
To find your eyes on mine.
And I wonder--
I wonder, I wonder--
Do you feel them too,
These spans of thought or feeling
That connect us?
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