Intersecting

My friend is kissing someone new, 

and waking up late, I imagine, 

then dragging herself to work 

where she spends more than half of her time there

thinking about one leg curled around another, 

or the way her kiss now fits 

into the nooks and crannies of a new landscape. 

She's on a journey, now, 

driving cross country across miles of skin, 

and so distracted by it 

that she simply smiles at the cops tucked behind billboards 

then waves: turbo love is not worth ticketing. 

I am not ready yet, 

but want to open myself to a generous and giving love.

I have someone who is more than ready to lay with me, 

naked upon naked, lip upon lip, leg wrapped around leg. 

And this would feel so good, so soothing, to intersect this way. 

Swirling green energy with orange, 

filling my head with jagged breathing not thoughts.

I am not ready to drive to Bozeman or Brighton Beach, 

but, oh, how a quick jaunt over to Buffalo would help. 

But love made for my sake is not love made at all, 

it is analgesic, an anodyne anesthetic. Only I would feel better, 

and the other person would be miles away from home, 

on the shore of Lake Erie, for God's sake, 

looking for a trucker, a train,

 a Dodge Caliber to rent and get home. 

I am in the process of approaching myself now, 

making flirtatious long glances into my own face. 

I am studying the curve of my strong back, 

and looking for signs of bright light shining in my eyes. 

I am waiting for the most important intersection of all: 

the day I fall back in love with some small part of me, 

something I have never felt or noticed before. 

In that one flash moment, the rest of world will reopen, 

and I will be able to reach back at someone reaching for me.