Touch

I

Your fingers might have sought
mine but they didn’t
quite make it, couldn’t bear
to traverse the distance between
barely knowing each other’s names
and knowing all too well the unease
of slipping through hair
without getting entangled.


II

Let things unfold, and don’t complain
too much. Be still and listen
to the breathing of this heart,
sitting next to this other one.
You say, enfold; do not contain.


III

I remember nothing
I haven’t already forgotten
at least in part:
Your hand taking my hand,
slipping away.

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