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I wake up and look around the bedroom at objects
you've left behind for me:
your hair wrap
parts of your skirt
books
a camera
the glass ring on my finger
- artifacts of our lovemaking -
and I think of you.
I ride my bike through the cool thick morning air
and sunshine and Lawrence roads
I look down at the gas tank and gauges
I feel the vacuum at my back
and I think of you.
Standing at work running a noisy machine
suddenly the rhythm makes me think of you.
I see my computer sitting in email mode
and I must write you.
Here I am. There you are.
I want you.
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