The way you put your hand upon my thigh:
You do not move,
You do not stroke;
You only press and you
stay.
You make my body ache for you.

I know I'm not supposed to love you anymore,
but still you let me lay with you,
My forehead against your shoulder,
My fingertips tracing the
sea
on the inside of your elbow.

In the middle there is no sea, just
sky
and
sky,
which is a sort of
sea,
you say.
Then trace the
sky
along my clavicle,
My Not-Supposed-To Love,
and I'll tattoo my love for you in the stars you leave behind.