My limbs grow longer, more likely to brush
the wrist of the boyish grin beside me
in the café, to knock a wayward knee
beneath the table, to peel the soft husk
of this voice warm as yours but closer, mere
inches away as I lean past the grind
of machines, letting conversation wind
aimless, laughter spill loud. Without you here,
I forget not to want to touch farmtans
in bloom, collarbone tattoos, forelocks dark
across strangers’ eyes. Without you at home,
this love’s a tether stretched till it slackens.
Though I’m the still point around which you mark
your journey, it’s never just you who roams.
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