A couch built for three,
yet you insist on sharing
a cushion. It almost makes

up for our self-imposed distance,
a safety measure leaving
me walled up tight,

uncertain how to scale
my terror and invite you back in.
You’re right there

(your knee jabbing mine, your body
heat setting my shoulder alight),
but I can’t hold your eyes

on tiptoe. The longer I look, you dissolve
into a wheat-spun field, a banking
hawk, one lone oak tree.

I want to leap over the wall, across
the field, climb your branches
and settle against your neck.

I want and I want and I want
myself out of the present until the couch
built for three holds only you.