subterranean homesick alien

I had an entry all planned out:

I was going to talk about how I was inspired by Nicole's entry on her love for paper and was going to explore it with my own emotions and rave, rave, rave!

I was going to talk about how Sundays usually make me feel blue.

I was going to talk about how it's almost the end of the school year, what courses I have chosen for next year and how that makes me feel.

I was going to talk about my ongoing love for Subterranean Homesick Alien by Radiohead.

I was going to talk about the cookies Kyle and I made two nights ago, the play we saw with my roommate in it and how we are now discussing elopement plans to Vegas to have an Elvis/extraterrestrial marriage ceremony [we really aren't].

But all I can really say is this:

I am homesick for my lover’s arms,
the way they wind their charms with
each touch, tendon
and glide down my cheek – like tears when we kiss with a passion
we know only comes when we’re desperate
for a firm compression of
an image, memory, of a
kiss each Sunday afternoon
or to mark that

we are here
in each other’s arms again,
tendons again tangling in curls of hair,
clavicles grasping to give hickies and
bellybuttons touching with kisses in
their own wily way
that never cease to amaze our toes when they tingle
and clutch during spasms of
sheer bliss
being in my lover’s arms.

I'm not a brilliant poet, but sometimes poetry works.