She came last night in the two hour slowness of I-70 all over my hand. It was unplanned and welcomed like a thunderstorm in February, and like the frozen ground, I opened up my parched skin and took her.
In that slowness backwards, she was gone armed with a thermos of coffee and after-sex hair.
I stayed in bed today watching the sun transform over the hardwood floor to morning, noon, early evening (I missed the afternoon in a dream).
She's coming again tomorrow to stay. To stay. Here. With me. In the time of a hurricane named Isidore.
I love you. I'm in love with you. I miss you desperately.