Our hands are under the table
that subterranean space where
we can speak without talking
and still mind our own tasks

Our separate screens are reflected
in our eyes, and we’re being diligent
as your thumb slowly traces
the contour of my palm

I breathe in and bite my lip
and I don’t know if it’s because
I’m considering a question on my screen
or you just ran your fingers through mine

I wonder if you're aware of
your claim on my current composure
the gentle pressure of your hand increases
and I carefully control my breath

I'm somehow still checking answers
and your reading’s still steady and thorough
our eyes haven’t wavered from our work
though your hands are making me want