My eyes are on the screen,
but my mind is on your hand,
lying pensively on the arm rest,
the screen's flashes dancing upon its frame--
Exposing the space between fingers I'm dying to cease.
Your hand lies there like a puzzle piece--
My heart races and fingers twitch
as my mind interlocks them with yours
to complete an image of grace,
one I've fantasized for nights on end.
Your eyes are set forward as mine,
I cannot even fathom what lies behind
this silent countenance of beauty.
How wholly engrossed are you in this movie,
are you tormented same as I?
As far as I'm concerned,
we are the only ones in this theater.
The popcorn in my lap,
the soda in the cup holder between us,
moments where our fingers touch
then retreat--
All without our eyes ever leaving the screen,
peripheral fantasies.
But that's where my intentions lie,
your hand dancing with mine
in the corner of my eyes
and the forefront of my mind.
How you weave through the popcorn,
your hand bumping against mine like an atom,
plucking the greasy morsel
and tossing it into your mouth--
What if our fingers lingered?
The soda our lips shared at separate times,
a middle-man between a kiss
I could only dream of.
These transient ecstasies
that pale in comparison
to the real thing.
But I'll take it,
in these peripheral games we play
in a darkened movie theater
on a Tuesday night.
Matinee screening,
our parents waiting impatiently in the parking lot outside,
nearing the end of the movie,
I've yet focused your hand in the frame--
These peripheral games.