The yearning sits
low in my stomach—
it churns.

Some thoughts lift it,
make it fly:
imagining your skin
brushing mine.

But how can it be
love,
when you are so far away?

Miles in the car
feel like moments
on the way to you—
but years
on the way back.

Is it love,
to want nothing more
than to press against you,
as if that space—
your body—
is the only place
I can breathe?

It makes me wonder
who I am without you.
Where I was
before you.

Is this love?
Is it,
really?