There’s this secret desperation
hidden in the crevice of my soul
for you to be here
with me
a comfort to keep
in the denim of my pocket

and when I come home weary
from that loud
obnoxious party
I want your embrace
the slow rising and falling
of your chest to hold me
your scent
to linger on my little black dress
your hands to rub
in small measured circles
the ***** of my worn down feet

and when it pours
the downpour thrashing
against the glass of my window
I want your presence
beside me in the antique chair
the silence
broken only by the turning
pages of our favourite books
and stolen glances
over steaming cups of tea

and when I’m crying
looking into
the dusty mirror
and wondering why
I was born with such features
picking at the flaws
I want your consoling voice
telling me I am ok
the way I am
your steady arm
helping me to my feet
and your soft fingers
brushing away the salty water
stinging at my lids

But for today I am alone
and my feet are worn
and your tea is left
to cool
and my tears
abide to flow
but my pocket remains
filled with secret thoughts
a vision of you