I'll See You Soon

I cried tonight because
I thought I had wrecked the printer.
You weren't here to fix it
(although I could do it myself);
you weren't here to hold me.
They (my girls) covered my grief
(and their apprehension)
with tissues and bottled water.
"Mommy? Do you want a drink?
I brought you some toilet paper to
blow your nose."
My heart broke again.
I managed a leaking smile and a wobbly "thank you,"
then covered my head and cried some more.
Later, the phone rang-
it was you.
"I love you, baby. I'll see you soon."
Friday, I'll see your face and feel your touch.
I can hold on until then.

Hungry

I'm hot
and restless
and wet.
Rather than being relaxed, having emerged from my bath,
I am hungry-
hungry for your touch.
I miss the warm whisper of your olive skin, your lips on my lips, our legs intertwined.
You complete me, and now that you're gone,
I'm incomplete.