Words omitted...

i.
Last week I dreamed that you were
in a place I could only reach by walking
my fingers over painted seas.
I dreamed of a conversation
crawling limply from my telephone:
your words drooping, wilted,
reluctant to find my ear.
And yet, despite your languor,
I awoke with echoes of your voice
pressing at the corners of my mouth,
pushing upwards.

ii.
The thought of meeting you at the airport
swelled me with heady visions:
lighted eyes, switched on after long disuse;
arms ajar, then closed behind me;
the gentle touch of lips, like brushing
eight weeks of dust from a Bible cover.
I decided against it, in the end –
I might as well skydive through your ceiling
dressed in roses, carrying a cardboard sign:
You have stolen my heart. Consider it
a donation.

iii.
I did not ask for anything
this Christmas. I wanted nothing
but a message in curt pixels,
signed with love and your name.
Instead, you gave me
one hour of your life,
static-crackled across an ocean;
the gift of your voice, moulded around
I miss you –
more than anything
the longest message could say.

iv.
I am in love with you.
Please come home
for me.