On an airplane from Birmingham to Salt Lake City, after Christmas with family

(idea) by Wuukiee Sat Jan 06 2001 at 22:49:20
My love,
i speed to you
on borrowed wings...
for my kind does not fly,
but crawls and creeps and slinks,
silent in the night.
i need... i want... i love...
and soon again, i *have*.
It's funny, really.
weeks, months, seasons, days,
do not hurt this much.
Somehow, those hurt the lesser,
far less than these brief hours
and mere minutes.
i know it's only time,
a thing irrelavent in our world,
as we hold the power of true forever.
But still i sit and wait and hurt,
pouring out poor verse upon
creamy pages,
to quell my *need* for NOW!
i sit and twitch and squirm and shift...
cats aren't made for sitting still!
nor for confinement such as this,
as i am trapped in my winged cage.
Wings are freedom, joy, escape, are they not?
So why are they now my captors,
deep confinement and oppression,
they taunt and drive me mad.
i read in fits, my words, and words
*worth* reading, both. read, and
shift, and wait.
To wait is the most unedurable
agony imaginable.
My cage hurts my body;
my watch hurts my soul.
So close i sometimes think
i can taste you for a stolen moment.
but when i stop to savor,
the stale recycled air is all
that passes through my lips.
The space, and the silence, and the seconds,
drive me mad.
i need release in your arms
but cannot have that yet,
so instead i seek the poor substitute
of ink as my balm.
It's not working. Nothing is.
Each moment stretches to eternity,
as my fingers spit cliches
seemingly stuck in time.
The pen continues its journey onward,
the same trip the seconds
stubbornly refuse to make.
i need to feel your arms
your cheek
your lips.
i need to feel the delightful
cool smoothness of the stone
that my finger has missed
since someone else's religion
destroyed it before.
My fingers, unaccustomed to this craft,
now groan as all else does,
so i return again
to my silence
and my stillness
and the seconds
and my waiting.
  (I like it!) 1 C!
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