Tomorrow you will wake early in a Swiss morning,
take the train to the airport, flying back to America.
I will cross the ocean, following you. I will come
at dinnertime, travel-dazed, ride the train from the airport,
unsure of the hour. You will be exhausted, asleep,
your naked body sprawled across our bed.
I will take off my clothes and curl into you, waking you
heartlessly. I cannot stand being apart any longer.
My muscles ache for your hands; my bones wait
for the weight of your solid flesh, pinning me down.
I will lie on my side, stretch one arm above my head,
that you may slide your fingers down,
from shoulder joint to ribs, from waist to hip-hollow.
But I am not home yet; instead I sit in a London cafe,
focused and dissolving. My money is no good here,
and no one speaks the language. I seek assistance, but
the agent says regretfully: we have no map for that road.
I am terribly afraid that we have gone too far from each other;
I have lost myself, and I need you to tell me —
Do you know how I can find the way home? Or, better,
will you still be waiting when I get there?