A tired man's voice groans through my speakers, saying things like
I want you, passion cracking his baritone and echoing in my ears. Locked in my house
by heavy snow and some rain, slicking over drifts with ice; some pain
ticking in my heart with lack of vice.
Did you hear it? A click, click—seconds passing by softly, the longer hand reaching
to numbers so far away. I would be the hour hand,
I would be
our hands together, entwined, but I find that that's not meant to be.
I sleep and groan, shift, turn,
I would be the shorter reaching of the two of us but oh, how I want you.