I looked up the word pine,
Asked Siri, hoping
she’d have only one definition,
“fresh scented trees, often found on Alpine slopes,”
the kind coveted by
monied, tall Europeans swishing between pretty death traps on sticks,
boards or wheel-free wieldy mobiles
avoiding injury or worse:
breaking altogether.
I didn’t want the other definition, because if undefined, if ignored,
I could spend another 25, 30 years,
avoiding its tickle
at the back of my throat.
Its tingle at the base of my spine, intoxicating, icy, spicy kundalini.
But looking up at you:
My pretty rewind machine
You are the perfect height, eyes locked perfect fit, bodies entangled
perfect scent, fresh and rugged
1793 miles and less than two days
is a gap
that changes nothing
When I remember standing
next to you (or laying)
hands clasped.
It’s pure
like snow immaculately, immortally
dressing those trees’ spiked jade needles, releasing winter pine’s
intoxicating beauty,
Beloved.
In this most undefined us,
I admit our tree’s other definition
does exist
Across language barriers, accessing freer lifetimes within us, the lifelines between us
And so I suppose it’s true
I opine that I pine for you…
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