early morning words

It was long. This is the first thing you tell me come daybreak.
The phone waits impatiently with secret digits, each aching to be touched -
- some formula that answers the We of We.
Every day at this hour I itch with the anticipation of your voice -
- accented, foreign, yet so very familiar: I have known you before.
Words whispered in hushed places, a foreign language known only to us.
There I meet you at the wailing wall where you breathe the Hebrew of my name; sacred, sacrosanct.
Long days see us riding bicycles: some throwback to childhood.
Do you ride to me as I ride to you? Vectors attempting to collide on a plane...
In the now, the hypothetical "almost" does not suffice.
It leaves me restless with in-between dreams of you -
Always your hands - reaching, holding, resting on top of mine
drawing my small fingers gently across a cool, hard wall in Midsummer.
Every thumbed page tells me this is Eden, Song of Songs, Jerusalem...
A place holy, sacred, pure and wholly right.
In these geographies we share of such things, honeyed fruit, a silver spoon.
A waking dream this, a great wash of a fugue state so real
where the only echo is your name, your name, your name.
Recall the last time I said it, almost screamed as you held me as I
shook and with a Shhhh you offered up your finger to my pouted, pursed lips.
I took you in then.
This, that, there then you atop me: how you moved so carefully, so gently
moving forward to that place until the thread at last gave,
until in that moment you saw in my eyes everything you know to be true.