I'm pretty sure I dreamed you up
Late last night while I was walking in the rain.
I probably shouldn't tell you
That nobody's ever been
Proud
To hold my hand
In front of anyone else.
It probably shouldn't mean something to me
That your fingers felt natural laced with mine.
Everybody has hands,
Everybody can touch me.
Ah,
But few people can touch me
And make me feel it.
I could go on about your voice,
The way you stumble and trip over your words
That tugs at my heart in this deliciously painful way:
I want to stop your confusion
With a kiss.
I could talk about your eyes,
Sparkling, sparking a connection like a short circuit in my head
That makes me have to stop and re-collect myself.
With a ring of dark around the edges of the iris
That I read somewhere makes somebody more beautiful,
Scientifically.
It didn't feel scientific.
It felt gravitational.
I could say lots about the way your hair
Never falls the same way,
And dances, reaching, in the breeze
And somehow the image makes your eyes glow more.
But your hands...
Contact is a thing for me, you see.
Skin.
(Yours.)
I love contact, and it's because
No words get in the way of what you want to say.
If you feel and wish, you need nothing more than a brushing of fingertips
To say exactly what you mean to.
I think you heard me, all night.
I was saying everything
I wasn't saying.
You kept drifting back to me, your fingers on my knee
Or resting in my palm,
And I think that's really what did it,
Honestly.
What made me decide I don't care if this is a terrible idea
(oh it surely is)
I know I should probably make a better show of it-
A token attempt, really, to be smart.
But then again, when
Does that ever work out?
And your fingers twined with mine...
I think you carry some kind of low level electric charge,
And it sizzled through me every time your hand touched mine.
I thought of breaking the connection a hundred times,
Easier for you,
Easier for me,
But god, how impossible.
I held the thought in my mind and it hurt me to consider.
And so instead I pulled you a little closer
And kept going.
Outside walking in the rain early this morning,
When the streets were paved in silver and gold from the sheen of the water
That caught and held the soft glow of the streetlamps
I thought,
"Well ****, this is going to keep me up nights, isn't it?"
And it began immediately
To pour.

The streets outside my window are deep black,
Slick with silver rain,
Illuminated completely, every so often, by a sudden violent flash.
And I think in flashes like that
At this late hour.
I think in strobes
Of your face.
I don't know why I wonder what you're doing.
I don't know why I wonder
How your skin would look
Lit by a sheen of rainwater
In those flares of white lightning.
What shadows would deepen your collarbones
And how your eyes would look,
Half lit with their part mischievous, part vulnerable glint.
I don't know why I keep stumbling into the thought of you
As I travel my mind in the dead of night.
I wonder if her lips are soft.
And I shake myself,
Think it would surely be wrong to find out.
You and I are so oddly close
So suddenly
And I could lose that.
And here there is not much else I have
To lose.
And yet
I think in flashes tonight.
A glimpse of skin in my mind,
Skin and words and rain ssssliding down the windowpane.
A burst of feeling that I blush my way out of
In the dark
And try to turn platonic.
In these past days, I've tried to bend my heart's gaze away
But I keep stealing little glances,
Truth be told.
I am curious. I am fascinated. I am drawn.
And it is late, and I am uncertain,
And outside the rain comes down with wanton savagery,
Total abandon,
And something in me leaps at the sound
And calls for me to answer it.
Something inside me surges like lightning,
A white hot bolt singing through my bones
Making them ache sweetly,
And I want to come down, as well.
With total abandon.
Just fall.
I try to shut it off,
But only casually, only halfheartedly.
In the deepest part of me,
I rejoice that I barely know you,
For there is so much to discover, so much to see.
In the private room of my mind,
I am shamelessly captivated.
Who are you?
What are you?
I want to know. I want to know everything.
I want to read your soul.
Rain your words down on me like a sudden storm,
I want them all.
I want them worked into my skin, slow.
What am I saying? Who are you?
Who knows:
Who are you
So immense
So enigmatic
That I must think of you only in parts,
In little glimpses?
That I fear the way I
Must
Think of you?
Who are you
That I am stirred and uneasy
That my thoughts arc toward you as if pulled by gravity?
Who are you
That I am so caught
And so unprepared?
You see...
I so rarely meet anybody
I want to feel with.