Your fingers run hot against my arm,
Brushing toward my own, opening a conversation
About where we are, about where we were
Before we got to where we are. And we can sit
Here, amongst the passion and words wanting
To be said with touch and presence– amongst
The passion and words wanting to be said,
But I’d rather touch you instead. And I trace
The ands I say to find my way behind your eyes,
To find my way into your world, where I can
Curl up and stay, forgetting how we got here–
Forgetting we were ever not here. And your lips,
Inviting me, show teeth so slight’ly.
I, the tumbleweed,
Long dry and uprooted,
Play atop the grains of sand.