I watch your fingers on piano
keys and remember the gentle
way you hold my hips when we
sleep. Everything feels intimate,
and I don’t know why more
people aren’t blushing when
you push your hand into your
left pocket or when you moisten
your weather-chapped lips. I
haven’t figured out how to go
back to normal life after feeling
the way your skin moves when
you breathe. I’ve started picking
out my clothes based on the
way they’ll look on your floor.
No one fucking understands how it feels to feel the things I do.