Photo by David Fanuel on Unsplash

It should have had a name


What will we call this?

When I gently touch your hand,

And stand on tiptoe to reach your ear, lips brushing.

What should we make of this,

This shapeless thing?

This thing that finds my hand inching towards yours in the back of a cab,

The thing that laughs and says it’s better that way.

I could not write it out,

If I tried.

You could fill my empty glass again.

2–4–1, sticky and soda sweet,

My legs brush yours in bars and

My hands itch to write you deeper into me.