Little Spoon

I’m soaked.
The rain this morning is ridiculous,
the bottom eight inches of my too-long jeans look
like they’ve been dipped in buckets.
It’s dark and the thunder is actually rolling —
— it seems like years since I’ve actually heard thunder actively rolling.
The lightening is sparking across the sky
Electric fingertips, shooting to one another
touching for a moment and then disappearing.

I don’t want to be at work.
I want to be in bed, under down blankets.
I want to be curled up in the crook of an armpit
I’m always happiest as the little spoon
the curve of my hips fitting into you
like a lovely, dreamy, sleepy jigsaw puzzle.
Lazy, heavy arms under and over me,
The subtle wriggle-thing that I do to get closer —
— closer, still… no, closer.

Instead, I’m here.
At my desk with a cup of coffee for now
and a Dr. Pepper for later. My feet are cold.
There’s a tornado watch, just announced on the
soft rock, retail-friendly radio station.
I can’t help but tilt my head.
I see all the work on my desk, but my mind —
— my mind is in bed, smelling your skin,
tracing your strong hands with my bitty fingers,
sighing my bitty sighs while you breathe
thick, heavy, sleepy breaths into my hair.

If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend.