She needs a house loaded with cups and ghost of a century ago's lesbians;
I need a flawless loft, a quick PC. She needs a woodstove, three lines of debris, a hatchet;
I need a perfect gas fire. She needs a line of containers: oats, coriander, thick green oil
I don't need anything to store. She needs pomanders, cloths, child quilts, scrapbooks.
She needs Wellesley reunions. I need shining planks of flooring, the stream's reflection.
She needs shrimp and sweat and salt;
she needs chocolate. I need a raku bowl, steam ascending from rice.
She needs goats, chickens, youngsters. Taking care of and sobbing.
I need wind from the waterway renewing cleared rooms.
She needs birthday events, theaters, banners, peonies.
I need words like lasers. She needs a mother's delicacy. Contact old as the waterway.
I need a lady's mind quick as a fox.
She's in her city, meeting her cutoff time; I'm in my plant town out late with the canine, tuning in to the pinging wind ringers, thinking of the twelve years of needing, separated and together.
We've kissed throughout the end of the week; we need to travel the hundred miles and attempt it once more.
