When time drags on
and my mind
drums idly,
I find my hands
tracing
the shape of you.
I’ve not felt,
just observed,
but I’ve stared
long enough to
remember the curve
of your lips,
and if I’m left with a
pen in my hand
the hook of your nose
comes easily.
It’s embarrassing
to admit, but I just
can’t help it.
My stomach flutters
every time you
touch me,
something you’re doing
more often lately.
Touch me again, please,
again and again.
I’d love to trace you
with my fingertips
this time.













