only touch, never kiss.
fingers intertwine.
arms, shoulders, throat.
never more.
yet i crave.
yet i arch
and curve
and preen
into the flat of his palm,
as if the fleeting contact
would bridge the atomic gap
that separates my skin from his.
i know
when the butterflies rest their wings
and the crickets cease to chirp
when the last office building
in the city we call home
succumbs its lights to the unyielding night;
his hands do not tingle with desire.
i know
when sunrise comes slow
and the dull sky warms with pink
i cross his mind if only by habit
a face to dull the memory of his ghosts.
he does not write about me.
he does not flinch at the whisper of my name.
i steal moments
that were never meant to be mine-
the empty mornings echo
with our ephemeral laughter.
the fishes at our pond
dance and swoon to our songs.
and we pretend
our intertwined fingers
mean nothing, nothing at all.
