Two hundred miles, and you want me

for a pet, a hand, a mouth

to be your passenger and bedmate

(and though I dare to dream of

willing subservience) your words cannot

entice me to obey-- please, don't leave me

with this memory: the tone of your voice

and that hungry look, "kiss me."

Take it with you-- it only hurts with re-

collection (I have too many

just like it). You're pleading

"Come home," as if I'm not

home already-- in these moments

I can almost forget why I fight

your magnetism; it was on the tip

of my tongue

until you distracted me with a smile.