Friday, May 21, 2010

the chair makes a scraping sound

the chair makes a scraping sound
as i drag it over next to yours.
she laughs, happy that i am happy.
the arches of my feet fit onto your thighs like jigsaw pieces
and you absentmindedly rub my toes as you talk.
i smile at our need to touch:
at dinner you reached for my leg and couldn't find it
and when your hand finally wrapped around my calf and the hollows of your palm
met the rising muscles, we both breathed a sigh.

you rinse our glasses, arms repeating motions you've done a million times
and i tell you, you don't have to.
you continue washing, and dry your hands on a towel before touching my shoulders through my shirt.
i put the scraping chair in its place, and follow you
the blue cotton on your back a path my hands will follow.

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