All the roads etched in your skin
take me home
to your arms and to your hands
that belong in mine.

Your voice as sweet as
summer cider and necessary as
morning coffee;
is the thing I wish for
to  hear first hand.

But there's no rush.

Good wine and good ideas
take their time
and I will travel home
by plane, and by train.
I will lose a day and gain
a love
that's hard to say
and harder to take away.