This game, and I should say
a name is what I want
a fact to hold against
the things we do –
nineteen minutes on the train
between Montrose and Grand
every one of them burning
with your gaze, my
shoulder blades melting, my hips
my neck, my open mouth
your hair disheveled, your jeans
lazy on lean legs
three seats away, even here
your eyes are deep
your hands
wide reaching. Once
mechanics hovered at the engine
the too-soon repair
a gift of a dozen rounds of time
you smiled, shrugged
I felt the need to moan
you twisted your ring
I covered mine
one person between us
two steps away, your arm
on the rail – your fingers
against the seat
stretching, fumbling.
I know you, don’t know you.
I only want to touch you



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