Separation Anxiety

Two weeks isn't long.
You can't grow a baby
or nurse a pine;
postcards take years
to arrive.

Ridiculous, you say
like when I believed
the roof was falling
and the garden,
alight. Silly girl.

But I took a day
to love the angle
in your crooked nose,
four to press my lips
across your taut neck;

and one August month
of summertime,
soaked in each other's
sweat and shame,
felt close to eternity.