I miss you; your softness is waning,
you’ve gone rigid, deflecting every touch
and breaking out like madness rashes
tainting every fraction of a moment that
our fingers brush —
I hold it dear, my dear, your sweetness like
a flower fresh in spring so rare but still
routine, awaiting, always there
eventually, but curled up petals playing
hide-and-seek that only bloom awake
when no one else is looking.