There are many things more intimate
than ***.
The closest I ever felt to you
was when we shared paranormal encounters.
We were walking hand-in-hand uphill
and you told me about a little boy
with coal-black eyes
pure pupil
who hovered above your bed.
His expression said “help me”
yet you hid from him
and his childish desperation.
I squeezed your hand tightly
with my own lovesick desperation
and told you about the time I was either abducted by aliens
or the government.
There really isn’t much of a difference anyway.
You squeezed each of my fingers individually
when I told you how it felt to be brainwashed
halfway between my bed and their headquarters.
We slept separately that night,
warm enough from this exchange
and suddenly unafraid.