Storm

I want you
the way a decaying typewriter
wants fingers telling a story of romance
after thirty years forgotten.

I want you

the way a pine sappling

wants summer's sweet smile

while it endures a foot of crisp snow.

I want you
the way a half-empty half-gallon of milk
wants to be poured into a glass beside a cookie
before it's past the date of expiration.

I don't think I need you.

Of course, the line
between desire and necessity
is finer than the line
between the sea and the sky.

And some days there's no line at all.