When you return from your trip bring me
Your hands. I need them
For turning and being, a way
Of melting and coming to life.

When you come home, for a gift, please give me
Your voice. I need it
For tickling and purring, a cruel exclamation
Of yum, tease-you-testing.

Picture it: you fly in, drive home,
I’m white night-gowned, barefoot on the deck
I’m trying to stay awake to see your unkempt face.
Your hair will smell of stale airplane air
But I don’t care—you’ve brought your digits and sounds.

Oh, your other pieces can come home too
But truth penetrates: I can always make do
With your fingers, a whisper,
A discarded white gown and some time.