no one will notice
but at the restaurant
pressure treated wood stuffed under her sweatshirt
her frame soaked up into my ribs
pushed together hard
like the bones in our hips against the seat
to feel her guttural pulse.
in the space we share-
dive into the slow-burn stove in her voice
a flashlight passing through the red edges between your fingers with your hand held against it.
catalytic cells in tiny metal boxes breathing on the back of you neck.
nothing left between us but our elbows on the polyurethane-killed table
nothing happens.

we imagine splashing our faces with cold water in claustrophobic places- under pressure- pushing down into submarine voyages-

we take our time-

we open up our faces to the sleepless weeks, lying on the floor to stretch our legs

there is want of words between us,
but languages can't do enough to satisfy us
and looks can only hold us for so long.

and the contents of my head is old refrigerator meat-
leftovers found in the back after too long

[she doesn't  see.]