the way an overhead fan blows stray hairs across your cheeks
you offer a bite of something to a friend with occupied hands, and you
accidentally press your finger to their lips
you are pale and purple-eyed in computer screen-light on a tuesday
midnight but the reasons in favor of going to sleep have suddenly vanished
one of your knuckles cracks louder than all the others
you are ashamed to admit that mistreatment simply fails to stir your anger
you wanted to make origami boxes out of huge sheets of newspaper at 4am
but you were alone and couldn't think of anyone who would appreciate the
activity
the hand on the small of your back is barely reassuring
you wished you could speak slowly but all your thoughts are flitting flashes of
still-lifes, bursting with inconsistent voice
your touch makes my skin bristle and I want to own you, if just for one
linoleum-floored, whiskey-strange moment