Nothing. Not even a look. Maybe a hand raised, to
say goodbye. A distance that makes me be
someone I hate. What do you do to me?
What am I after you? Then.
The pressure of your hand on my shoulder. ‘Thank you’ it says.
The butterflies, the unfocus, the impression that I am floating,
the irrepressible need to smile, a smile large, sunny, fresh, blushing,
a nod that wants to be nonchalant, unbothered… ‘quick’ you say.
You’re so beautiful I want to die. You show me this place where you pitched a tent and I
imagine us, all the way up on the cliff shaken by the wind, against the warmth
emanating from your body. My hands behind your back and
the pressure. And then. Almost a whole night with you. Nothing, still.
              Nothing; still.
There were: looks, adventurous but light hands,
on your chest, on my hip, our interlaced fingers, our thighs touching
under the table, my leg embraced in the warmth of yours. There were: dances
unanswered questions. The tube station is closed and my hand slides in the
triangle of your elbow. Can you feel it too, when our eyes clash?
It’s not love.
Or is it?
It’s not just desire, I wouldn’t burn of it like I do right now and all the other nows.
The scarf I wound around your neck as though you were mine and you keep my eyes in yours
like you’re drinking them.
My head is full of you. Howling with my thoughts, so loud, 
             ‘you, you, you.’
What would I hear if I listened to your thoughts? Would they be as wild as
mine are of you? My heart breaks in small fissures. Hearing your voice through
the walls and dying to hear it on my skin, feeling your
murmur
             grow inside me.