Tuesday, December 16, 2008

across the room

Your silhouette pierces the aperture between
my hips, tingling; a middle school frenzy caught on film
by my skin, twisting through my abdomen and
projecting in reverse out of my eyes. I watch you with
her, your hand on her back instead of mine. From
across the room you look at me as if to say
I’m sorry it is not you. After
our subdued hellos, I am unfocused; my body becomes eager
to shed at least a little of its politeness. We
don’t touch, she
might see. I hide inside the flannel of my shirt,
pretending it is your hands. Sometimes I think they
know, that they can see your influence the same way
a black light picks up traces of semen
and blood. The business of bases – my
only pieces of you are the fingerprints you’ve left
on the knees of my jeans. We are captured,
developed by the sparks floating from us
when we touch.
Sometimes I think I prefer the dark.

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