I sit on a windowsill, cup in hand.
The cup is attached to a four hundred mile-long string
that if its path was traced would lead to your hands,
where you sit, holding a cup.
I try to shout so you can hear,
but four hundred miles is too far
and my shouts are converted to whispers
along the way.
I press my mouth to the cup and cry out,
“I need you!”
The string does not transfer my volume
and my passion has been lost in the transaction.
Instead, you hear a soft voice
gently saying, “I need you.”