The way a devoted fan refuses to wash the hand touched by the one they admire,
I recoil at the thought of thoughts that may interfere with our most recent talk,
close my eyes so no new images hide the sight of your smile, your lips pursed in thought, your thin fingers brushing the wind-blown hair from your face, your leopard print sneakers, your hands in mine.... Or was it mine in yours?
This is the dreaded foretaste of suffering. We both know what harm can come from holding on too tightly. We have learned by now that all things are impermanent. Nothing, not even this, should be clung to.
We have wisdom on our side, you and I, and this is why we should survive this unsettling flood of love we feel.