It’s the needing now, more than the wanting.

The length of my hair and the straightness of his eyes,

It’s the I’ll go there for you

And waiting till the nature of it all engulfs me in the quiet.

The quiet washing.

Everything.

It’s another road, but a cold one

Where wildness sits and occasionally dies

But, then still being here,

The loveliness of his hands tying sailor knots

And my small little heart wishing for sun. And sun. And more sun.