Twenty-first century lovesickness: I am tired
of only holding you through a pixelated screen.
It’s supposed to be good enough. But I yearn
for conversations under crabapple trees, chapped
lip kisses, a love that is less hope and more touch.
Does anyone even remember how anymore?
Sweat and spit and strands of hair.
Limbs unfolding. The delicious sweet of longing
for something ripe and flaming and palpable.
I know you and I do. We’ve crammed a whole
lifetime of it in a handful of short,
it’s video calls until the early hours,
my heart begging to leap through the glass.
Good enough to pass the days. But god,
how I dream of those trees.