happy hour

so you wrote a love poem to me
and sent it by email.
all your desires,
denuded by pixels,
a digital divide
between your passion
and mine.

how i wish,
you were sitting here
in front of me,
our knees touching,
just so i could lean forward
to catch your low voice,
your elbows resting on your thigh.
as you read the same poem
you scribbled in that unreadable text.
(your handwriting’s a murder,
but you’re forgiven
because your hair flops over
your dreamy eyes,
and makes you look like
a wiser John Abraham.)

the words would mean so much more,
if i could hear you mouth them aloud.
they would linger on your lips,
and when we kiss
i would get to taste them.
(hmm...a bit of Bourneville and Glenlivet
and blueberry muffins
with cinnamon?)

i could stuff the poem away,
in the back pocket of my jeans,
put my arms around you,
and pretend to read
your eyes instead.
(darn those sooty lashes
you inherited from your mama!)

or better still,
you’d hand me the letter
and let me read,
distracting me
from the words,
by tracing lazy circles
on my thigh.

until then, i shall smile
at the moiré,
and savor each word,
of the love poem
you send me by email.