The lines of her face
 The curve of her legs
  The feel of her
   waist in your hands...
The sound of her breathing
 The touch of her
  curling up beside you
   laying her head on your chest...
The look in her eyes
 The stories she tells you
  The things that she says
   upending your plot...
The joy you are filled with,
 The ache of her absence;
  Refound, four hands
   close-held in reunion...
The radiant, luminous,
 whirring and humming
  essence-of-her
   so close, overlapping:
Standing beside you,
 sitting against you,
  lying, sleeping,
   awake in the morning...

She complains about words
 never quite filling
  the space of the thing
   they describe;
In this vain trying
 even her saying
  seems to this writer too pale.
                     -- CSA, 13-apr-2000. 10am.
                        A poem upon waking alone in my room.